LIBRARY    OF 

HENRY  C.  FALL 

AND  KATHARINE  A.  FALL 


Number    42.5. 


Date  of  Purchase^ 

Place 

Cost 


-  im- 


H. 


42,5 


To  a  young  man  asking  for  his  opinion,  Dr.  Oliver  Wendell 
Holmes  recently  enumerated  as  the  best  three  books  "  the  Bible, 
Shakespeare's  plays,  and  a  good  dictionary,  say  Worcester  or 
Webster." 


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THE 


POETICAL  WORKS 


OF 


OLIVER  WENDELL  HOLMES 


l?otisr tjolD  Coition 


WITH  ILLUSTRATIONS 


BOSTON  AND   NEW  YORK 
HOUGHTON,  MIFFLIN  AND   COMPANY 


Copyright,  1850, 1868, 1859, 1861, 1862, 1865, 1872, 1874, 1875, 1877, 1878, 1880,1881, 1882,  and  1887 
By  OUTER  WENDELL  HOLMES,  TICKNOR,  REED  &  FIELDS,  JAKES  K.  OSGOOD  &  Co.,  and 

HOUOHTON,  MlFFLIN  &  CO. 

All  rights  reserved. 


CONTENTS. 


MM 

To  MY  READERS         ..,*•• .       .       .       .  iii 

EARLIER  POEMS  (1830  - 1836). 

•"*  Old  Ironsides    .. 1 

^-  The  Last  Leaf 1 

^  The  Cambridge  Churchyard 2 

To  an  Insect • 3 

The  Dilemma 4 

My  Aunt 4 

Reflections  of  a  Proud  Pedestrian 5 

Daily  Trials,  by  a  Sensitive  Man 6 

y  Evening,  by  a  Tailor ....6 

*  The  Dorchester  Giant 7 

To  the  Portrait  of  "A  Lady" 8 

•  The  Comet 9 

The  Music-Grinders 0 

The  Treadmill  Song 10 

The  September  Gale 11 

The  Height  of  the  Ridiculous 12 

The  Last  Reader 12 

Poetry :  A  Metrical  Essay 13 

ADDITIONAL  POEMS  (1837-1848). 

The  Pilgrim's  Vision 27 

The  Steamboat 29 

Lexington .........29 

"» On  Lending  a  Punch-Bowl 30 

A  Song  for  the  Centennial  Celebration  of  Harvard  College,  1836 32 

The  Island  Hunting-Song 33 

Departed  Days 33 

The  Only  Daughter 33 

Song  written  for  the  Dinner  given  to  Charles  Dickens,  by  the  Young  Men  of  Boston, 

Feb.  1, 1842 34 

Lines  recited  at  the  Berkshire  Festival 35 

v"  Nux  Postcoenatica 36 

Verses  for  After-Dinner 38 

A  Modest  Request,  complied  with  after  the  Dinner  at  President  Everett's  Inaugura- 
tion      39 

The  Stethoscope  Song 43 

Extracts  from  a  Medical  Poem 45 

The  Parting  Word 46 

A  Song  of  Other  Days ...4? 


2051926 


vi  CONTENTS. 


Song  for  a  Temperance  Dinner  to  which  Ladies  were  invited  (New  York  Mercantile 

Library  Association,  Nov.,  1842) 48 

A  Sentiment 48 

A  Rhymed  Lesson 49 

An  After-Dinner  Poem 64 

MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS  (1830,  ETC.). 

<  The  Meeting  of  the  Dryads 71 

•*  The  Mysterious  Visitor 72 

t  The  Toadstool 73 

v  The  Spectre  Pig 74 

To  a  Caged  Lion 75 

The  Star  and  the  Water-Lily 76 

Illustration  of  a  Picture 77 

A  Roman  Aqueduct 77 

From  a  Bachelor's  Private  Journal 78 

La  Grisette 78 

Our  Yankee  Girl« 79 

L'Inconnue 79 

Stanzas ." 80 

Lines  by  a  Clerk 80 

The  Philosopher  to  his  Love 80 

The  Poet's  Lot 81 

To  a  blank  Sheet  of  Paper 81 

To  the  Portrait  of  "  A  Gentleman  " 82 

"The  Ballad  of  the  Oysterman 83 

A  Noontide  Lyric 84 

•»  The  Hot  Season 84 

A  Portrait 85 

An  Evening  Thought 85 

The  Wasp  and  the  Hornet 86 

"QuiVive" 86 

BONGS  IN  MANY  KEYS  (1849-1861) 87 

I.  1849-1856. 

Agnes .......89 

The  Ploughman ..»..  97 

PICTURES  FROM  OCCASIONAL  POEMS  (1850-1856). 

Spring ..99 

The  Study 100 

The  Bells 102 

Non-Resistance 103 

*  The  Moral  Bully 103 

The  Mind's  Diet 105 

Our  Limitations 105 

The  Old  Player 105 

The  Island  Ruin 108 

The  Banker's  Dinner Ill 

The  Mysterious  Illness 115 

A  Mother's  Secret 117 

The  Secret  of  the  Stars 121 

A  Poem.    Dedication  of  the  Pittsfleld  Cemetery,  September  9, 1850        ...  123 

To  Governor  Swain 125 

To  an  English  Friend 126 


CONTENTS.  Vll 

PAG* 

VlGNETTEa 

After  a.  Lecture  on  Wordsworth 127 

After  a.  Lecture  on  Moore 

After  a.  Lecture  on  Keats 1 

After  a  Lecture  on  Shelley 

At  the  close  of  a  Course  of  Lectures 130 

The  Hudson •        • 

A  Poem  for  the  Meeting  of  the  American  Medical  Association  at  New  York.  May  5, 


1853 


132 


A  Sentiment 133 


The  New  Eden 


134 


Semi-centennial  Celebration  of  the  New  England  Society,  New  York,  Dec.  22,  1855 
Farewell  to  J.  R.  Lowell      ............ 

For  the  Meeting  of  the  Burns  Club         ..........    137 

Ode  for  Washington's  Birthday  ..........    .    • 

Birthday  of  Daniel  Webster      ............    I39 

IL  1857-1861. 

The  Voiceless    ...............    * 

The  Two  Streams          ..........       •*..*." 


The  Promise 
Avis 


142 
l 


The  Living  Temple 

At  a  Birthday  Festival 

A  Birthday  Tribute ' 

The  Gray  Chief • 

The  Last  Look * 

In  Memory  of  Charles  Wentworth  Upham,  Jr. 146 


Martha 


146 


Meeting  of  the  Alumni  of  Harvard  College 

The  Parting  Song 1 

For  the  Meeting  of  the  National  Sanitary  Association 149 

For  the  Burns  Centennial  Celebration 150 

Boston  Common.  — Three  Pictures 151 

^.The  Old  Man  of  the  Sea •       .        .151 

International  Ode 152 

Brother  Jonathan's  Lament  for  Sister  Caroline 153 

Vive  La  France 153 

Under  the  Washington  Elm,  Cambridge 154 

Freedom,  our  Queen 155 

Army  Hymn 155 

Parting  Hymn 156 

The  Flower  of  Liberty 156 

The  Sweet  Little  Man 157 

Union  and  Liberty 158 

MS  FROM  THE  AUTOCRAT  OF  THE  BREAKFAST  TABLE  (1857- 1858). 

r  The  Chambered  Nautilus 161 

Sun  and  Shadow 162 

v  The  Two  Armies 162 

>Musa Y  .  163 

A  Parting  Health 164 

What  we  all  Think 165 

Spring  has  come I*5 


VU1  CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

X  Prologue 166 

>  Latter-Day  Warnings 168 

Album  Verses 168 

/  A  Good  Time  Going  ! 169 

y  The  Last  Blossom 17C 

••  Contentment 170 

>  ./Estivation 171 

X  The  Deacon's  Masterpiece ;  or,  The  Wonderful  "  One-Hoss  Shay "  .       .       .172 

Parson  Turell's  Legacy 174 

<  Ode  for  a  Social  Meeting,  with  slight  Alterations  by  a  Teetotaler        .       .       .        .176 

POEMS  FROM  THE  PROFESSOR  AT  THE  BREAKFAST  TABLE  (1858- 1859). 

V  Under  the  Violets 1V7 

Hymn  of  Trust 177 

A  Sun-day  Hymn 178 

The  Crooked  Footpath 178 

vlris,  her  Book 179 

Robinson  of  Leyden 180 

St.  Anthony  the  Reformer 181 

The  Opening  of  the  Piano 181 

Midsummer 182 

DeSauty 182 

POEMS  FROM  THE  POET  AT  THE  BREAKFAST  TABLE  (1871  - 1872> 

Homesick  in  Heaven 185 

Fantasia 187 

XAuntTabitba 187 

Wind-Clouds  and  Star-Drifts 188 

•  Epilogue  to  the  Breakfast-Table  Series 205 

POEMS  OF  THE  CLASS  OF  '29  (1851-1877). 

Bill  and  Joe 207 

A  Song  of  "  Twenty-nine  " 208 

Questions  and  Answers 209 

An  Impromptu 209 

y  The  Old  Man  Dreams 210 

Remember  — Forget 210 

Our  Indian  Summer 211 

MareRubrum 212 

The  Boys 213 

Lines 214 

A  Voice  of  the  Loyal  North 215 

J.  D.  R. 215 

Voyage  of  the  Good  Ship  Union 216 

"  Choose  you  this  Day  whom  ye  will  Serve  " 217 

F.  W.  C 218 

The  Last  Charge 219 

Our  Oldest  Friend 220 

Sherman 's  in  Savannah        ... 221 

My  Annual 221 

All  Here 222 

Once  More 223 

The  Old  Cruiser 225 

Hymn  for  the  Class-Meeting "...  227 

Even-Song ...  227 


CONTENTS.  IX 

PAGE 

The  Smiling  Listener 229 

Our  Sweet  Singer 231 

***»*»«*                                              m                .......  232 

What  I  have  come  for 233 

Our  Banker 233 

For  Class  Meeting 235 

"AdAmicos" 236 

How  not  to  Settle  it 237 

SONGS  OF  MANY  SEASONS  (1862- 1874> 

Opening  the  Window 341 

Programme    ...............  241 

IN  THE  QUIET  DAYS. 

An  Old-Year  Song 243 

-J  Dorothy  Q.,  a  Family  Portrait 243 

*  The  Organ-Blower 245 

At  the  Pantomime 245 

After  the  Fire 246 

A  Ballad  of  the  Boston  Tea-Party 247 

Nearing  the  Snow-Line 248 

IN  WAR  TIME. 

To  Canaan 250 

"  Thus  saith  the  Lord,  I  offer  Thee  Three  Things ".  .       .       .       .              .       .  251 

Never  or  Now 251 

One  Country 252 

God  Save  the  Flag ! 252 

Hymn  after  the  Emancipation  Proclamation      ....        ....  253 

Hymn  for  the  Fair  at  Chicago 253 

SONGS  OF  WELCOME  AND  FAREWELL. 

America  to  Russia 255 

Welcome  to  the  Grand  Duke  Alexis 255 

At  the  Banquet  to  the  Grand  Duke  Alexis 256 

At  the  Banquet  to  the  Chinese  Embassy 257 

At  the  Banquet  to  the  Japanese  Embassy 258 

Bryant's  Seventieth  Birthday 259 

At  a  Dinner  to  General  Grant 261 

At  a  Dinner  to  Admiral  Farragut 262 

A  Toast  to  Wilkie  Collins 263 

•     To  H.  W.  Longfellow 263 

To  Christian  Gottfried  Ehrenberg 264 

MEMORIAL  VERSES. 

For  the  Services  in  Memory  of  Abraham  Lincoln,  June  1, 1865 266 

For  the  Commemoration  Services,  Cambridge,  July  21,  1865 266 

Edward  Everett,  January  30,  1865 268 

Shakespeare,  Tercentennial  Celebration,  April  23,  1864 270 

In  Memory  of  John  and  Robert  Ware,  May  25,  1864 271 

Humboldt's  Birthday,  Centennial  Celebration,  September  14,  1869  ....  272 

Poem  at  the  Dedication  of  the  Halleck  Monument,  July  8,  1869 274 

Hymn  for  the  Celebration  at  the  Laving  of  the  Corner-Stone  of  Harvard  Memorial 

Hall,  Cambridge,  October  6,  1870 274 

Hymn  for  the  Dedication  of  Memorial  Hall,  at  Cambridge,  June  23,  1874    .        .       .  275 

Hymn  at  the  Funeral  Services  of  Charles  Sumner,  April  29,  1874     ....  275 


X  CONTENTS. 

RHYMES  OF  AN  HOUR.  PAOV 

Address  for  the  Opening  of  the  Fifth  Avenue  Theatre,  New  York,  December  3,  1873  277 
A  Rip  Van  Winkle,  M.  D.;  an  After-Dinner  Prescription  taken  by  the  Massachusetts 

Medical  Society,  at  their  Meeting  held  August  25,  1870 280 

x  Chanson  without  Music 286 

For  the  Centennial  Dinner  of  the  Proprietors  of  Boston  Pier,  or  the  Long  Wharf, 

April  16,  1873 287 

A  Poem  served  to  Order  .....' 288 

The  Fountain  of  Youth 289 

A  Hymn  of  Peace,  sung  at  the  "  Jubilee  "  June  15,  1869,  to  the  Music  of  Keller's 

"  American  Hymn  " 290 

ADDITIONAL  POEMS  (TO  1877). 

At  a  Meeting  of  Friends,  August  29, 1859 293 

A  Farewell  to  Agassiz 294 

^,  A  Sea  Dialogue 295 

At  the  "Atlantic  Dinner,"  December  15, 1874 296 

"Lucy."    For  her  Golden  Wedding,  October  18, 1875 298 

Hymn  for  the  Inauguration  of  the  Statue  of  Governor  Andrew,  at  Hingham,  October 

7,  1875     .               298 

A  Memorial  tribute 299 

Joseph  Warren,  M.  D 300 

^  Grandmother's  Story  of  Bunker-Hill  Battle 300 

*!  Old  Cambridge,  July  3,  1875 304 

Welcome  to  the  Nations,  Philadelphia,  July  4,  1876 306 

A  Familiar  Letter 306 

Unsatisfied 808 

X  How  the  Old  Horse  won  the  Bet 309 

An  Appeal  for  "the  Old  South" j.,311 

The  First  Fan 312 

To  R  B.  tt 314 

"The  Ship  of  State" 815 

A  Family  Record 315 

FIRST  VERSES ....820 

X  I'HB  IRON  GAM 821 

Vestigia  Quinque  Rctrorsum 823 

*  My  Aviarr 326 

On  the  Threshold 328 

To  George  Peabody  .  * 329 

At  the  Papyrus  Club 329 

t  For  Whittier'g  Seventieth  Birthday 330 

Two  Sonnets  :  Harvard 331 

•  The  Last  Survivor 332 

The  Archbishop  and  Gil  Bias 334 

The  Shadows 335 

>  The  Coming  Era 330 

In  Response 337 

For  the  Moore  Centennial  Celebration 333 

To  James  Freeman  Clarke 340 

Welcome  to  the  Chicago  Commercial  Club 341 

American  Academy  Centennial  Celebration 341 

The  School-Boy 343 

The  Silent  Melody 350 


NOTES 863 


JUL 


LIST  OF  ILLUSTRATIONS. 


Oliver  Wendell  Holmes Frontispiece. 

"  Still  the  red  beacon  pours  its  evening  rays  " 45 

"  She  turned,  —  a  reddening  rose  in  bud  " .    91 

"  Till  eve  she  spun  ;  she  spun  till  morning  light  "  .       .       . 118 

James  Kussell  Lowell 144 

"  Sun  and  Shadow  " .       .      162 

"  Come,  vagrant,  outcast,  wretch  forlorn  " 206 

"  Nearing  the  snowline  " 248 

The  Shakespeare  Bust  at  Stratford 270 

Louis  Agassiz 29* 

My  Aviary 32C 

The  School-Boy 349 


TO  MY  READERS. 


NAY,  blame  me  not ;  I  might  have  spared 
Your  patience  many  a  trivial  verse, 

Yet  these  my  earlier  welcome  shared, 
So,  let  the  better  shield  the  worse. 

And  some  might  say,   "Those  ruder 

songs 
Had  freshness  which  the  new  have 

lost; 

To  spring  the  opening  leaf  belongs, 
The  chestnut-burs  await  the  frost." 

When  those  I  wrote,  my  locks  were 
brown, 

When  these  I  write — ah,  well-a-day  ! 
The  autumn  thistle's  silvery  down 

Is  not  the  purple  bloom  of  May  ! 

Go,  little  book,  whose  pages  hold 
Those  garnered  years  in  loving  trust ; 

How  long  before  your  blue  and  gold 
Shall  fade  and  whiten  in  the  dust  ? 

0  sexton  of  the  alcoved  tomb, 

Where  souls  in  leathern  cerements  lie, 
Tell  me  each  living  poet's  doom  ! 
How  long  before  his  book  shall  die  ? 

It  matters  little,  soon  or  late, 
A  day,  a  month,  a  year,  an  age,  — 

1  read  oblivion  in  its  date, 
And  Finis  on  its  title-page. 


Before  we  sighed,  our  griefs  were, told; 

Before  we  smiled,  our  joys  were  sung ; 
And  all  our  passions  shaped  of  old 

In  accents  lost  to  mortal  tongue. 

In  vain  a  fresher  mould  we  seek,  — 
Can  all  the  varied  phrases  tell 

That  Babel's  wandering  children  speak 
How  thrushes  sing  or  lilacs  smell  ? 

Caged  in  the  poet's  lonely  heart, 
Love  wastes  unheard  its  tenderesttone  ,- 

The  soul  that  sings  must  dwell  apart, 
Its  inward  melodies  unknown. 

Deal  gently  with  us,  ye  who  read  ! 

Our  largest  hope  is  unfulfilled,  — 
The  promise  still  outruns  the  deed,  — 

The  tower,  but  not  the  spire,  we  build. 

Our  whitest  pearl  we  never  find  ; 

Our  ripest  fruit  we  never  reach  ; 
The  flowering  moments  of  the  mind 

Drop  half  their  petals  in  our  speech. 

These  are  my  blossoms ;  if  they  wear 
One  streak  of  morn  or  evening's  glow, 

Accept  them  ;  but  to  me  more  fair 
The  buds  of  song  that  never  blow. 

APRIL  8,  1862. 


FROM  the  first  gleam  of  morning  to  the  gray 

Of  peaceful  evening,  lo,  a  life  unrolled ! 

In  woven  pictures  all  its  changes  told, 
Its  lights,  its  shadows,  every  flitting  ray, 
Till  the  long  curtain,  falling,  dims  the  day, 

Steals  from  the  dial's  disk  the  sunlight's  gold, 

And  all  the  graven  hours  grow  dark  and  cold 
Where  late  the  glowing  blaze  of  noontide  lay. 
Ah !  the  warm  blood  runs  wild  in  youthful  veins,  — 

Let  me  no  longer  play  with  painted  fire ; 

New  songs  for  new-born  days !    I  would  not  tire 
The  listening  ears  that  wait  for  fresher  strains 
In  phrase  new-moulded,  new-forged  rhythmic  chains, 

With  plaintive  measures  from  a  worn-out  lyre. 
August  2, 1881. 


EAELIER    POEMS. 


1881886- 


Ay,  tear  her  tattered  ensign  down  ! 

Long  has  it  waved  on  high, 
And  many  an  eye  has  danced  to  see 

That  banner  in  the  sky  ; 
Beneath  it  rung  the  battle  shout, 

And  burst  the  cannon's  roar  ;  — 
The  meteor  of  the  ocean  air 

Shall  sweep  the  clouds  no  more  ! 

Her  deck,  once  red  with  heroes'  blood, 

Where  knelt  the  vanquished  foe, 
"When  winds  were  hurrying  o'er  the  flood, 

And  waves  were  white  below, 
No  more  shall  feel  the  victor's  tread, 

Or  know  the  conquered  knee  ;  — 
The  harpies  of  the  shore  shall  pluck 

The  eagle  of  the  sea  ! 

0  better  that  her  shattered  hulk 

Should  sink  beneath  the  wave  ; 
Her  thunders  shook  the  mighty  deep, 

And  there  should  be  her  grave  ; 
Nail  to  the  mast  her  holy  flag, 

Set  every  threadbare  sail, 
\nd  give  her  to  the  god  of  storms, 

The  lightning  and  the  gale  ! 


THE  LAST   LEAF. 

I  SAW  him  once  before, 
As  he  passed  by  the  door, 
And  again 


The  pavement  stones  resound, 
As  he  totters  o'er  the  ground 
With  his  cane. 

They  say  that  in  his  prime, 
Ere  the  pruuing-knife  of  Time 

Cut  him  down, 
Not  a  better  man  was  found 
By  the  Ciier  on  his  round 

Through  the  town. 

But  now  he  walks  the  streets, 
And  he  looks  at  all  he  meets 

Sad  and  wan, 

And  he  shakes  his  feeble  head, 
That  it  seems  as  if  he  said, 

"  They  are  gone." 

The  mossy  marbles  rest 

On  the  lips  that  he  has  prest 

T       A  i      •      11  "T&W?  i  £»ix^  \_fl-     *-4s 

In  their  bloom,  ..^tf^^  tc~t^- 
And  the  names  he  loved  to  hear 
Have  been  carved  for  many  a  year 

On  the  tomb. 

My  grandmamma  has  said  — 
Poor  old  lady,  she  is  dead 

Long  ago  — 

That  he  had  a  Roman  nose, 
And  his  cheek  was  like  a  rose 

In  the  snow. 

But  now  his  nose  is  thin, 
And  it  rests  upon  his  chin 
Like  a  staff, 


KAELIER   POEMS. 


And  a  crook  is  in  his  back, 
And  a  melancholy  crack 
In  his  laugh. 

I  know  it  is  a  sin 
For  me  to  sit  and  grin 

At  him  here  ; 

But  the  old  three-cornered  hat, 
And  the  breeches,  and  all  that, 

Are  so  queer ! 

And  if  I  should  live  to  be 
The  last  leaf  upon  the  tree 

In  the  spring, 

Let  them  smile,  as  I  do  now, 
At  the  old  forsaken  bough 

Where  I  cling. 

THE  CAMBRIDGE  CHURCHYARD. 

OUR  ancient  church  !  its  lowly  tower, 

Beneath  the  loftier  spire, 
Is  shadowed  when  the  sunset  hour 

Clothes  the  tall  shaft  in  fire  ; 
It  sinks  beyond  the  distant  eye, 

Long  ere  the  glittering  vane, 
High  wheeling  in  the  western  sky, 

Has  faded  o'er  the  plain. 

Like  Sentinel  and  Nun,  they  keep 

Their  vigil  on  the  green  ; 
One  seems  to  guard,  and  one  to  weep, 

The  dead  that  lie  between  ; 
And  both  roll  out,  so  full  and  near, 

Their  music's  mingling  waves, 
They  shake  the  grass,  whose  pennoned 
spear 

Leans  on  the  narrow  graves. 

The  stranger  parts  the  flaunting  weeds, 
Whose  seeds  the  winds  have  strown 

So  thick  beneath  the  line  he  reads, 
They  shade  the  sculptured  stone  ; 

The  child  unveils  his  clustered  brow, 
And  ponders  for  a  while 


The  graven  willow's  pendent  bough, 
Or  rudest  cherub's  smile. 

But  what  to  them  the  dirge,  the  knell  ? 

These  were  the  mourner's  share  ; 
The  sullen  clang,  whose  heavy  swell 

Throbbed  through  the  beatingair ; 
The  rattling  cord,  — the  rolling  stone,  — 

The  shelving  sand  that  slid, 
And,  far  beneath,  with  hollow  tone, 

Rung  on  the  coffin's  lid. 

The  slumberer's  mound  grows  fresh  and 
green, 

Then  slowly  disappears ; 
The  mosses  creep,  the  gray  stones  lean, 

Earth  hides  his  date  and  years  ; 
But,  long  before  the  once-loved  name 

Is  sunk  or  worn  away, 
No  lip  the  silent  dust  may  claim, 

That  pressed  the  breathing  clay. 

Go  where  the  ancient  pathway  guides, 

See  where  our  sires  laid  down 
Their   smiling   babes,   their   cherished 
brides, 

The  patriarchs  of  the  town  ; 
Hast  thou  a  tear  for  buried  love  ? 

A  sigh  for  transient  power  ? 
All  that  a  century  left  above, 

Go,  read  it  in  an  hour  ! 

The  Indian's  shaft,  the  Briton's  ball, 

The  sabre's  thirsting  edge, 
The  hot  shell,  .shattering  in  its  fall, 

The  bayonet's  rending  wedge,  — 
Here  scattered  death ;  yet,  seek  the  spot; 

No  trace  thine  eye  can  see, 
No  altar,  —  and  they  need  it  not 

Who  leave  their  children  free  ! 

Look  where  the  turbid  rain -drops  stand 
In  many  a  chiselled  square  ; 

The  knightly  crest,  the  shield,  the  brand 
Oi'  honored  names  were  there ;  — 


TO   AN  INSECT. 


Alas  !  for  every  tear  is  dried 

Those  blazoned  tablets  knew, 

Save  when  the  icy  marble's  side 
Drips  with  the  evening  dew. 

Or  gaze  upon  yon  pillared  stone, 

The  empty  urn  of  pride  ; 
There  stand  the  Goblet  and  the  Sun,  — 

What  need  of  more  beside  ? 
Where  lives  the  memory  of  the  dead, 

Who  made  their  tomb  a  toy  ? 
Whose  ashes  press  that  nameless  bed  ? 

Go,  ask  the  village  boy  ! 

Lean  o'er  the  slender  western  wall, 

Ye  ever-roaming  girls ; 
The  breath  that  bids  the  blossom  fall 

May  lift  your  floating  curls, 
To  sweep  the  simple  lines  that  tell 

An  exile's  date  and  doom  ; 
And  sigh,  for  where  his  daughters  dwell, 

They  wreathe  the  stranger's  tomb. 

And  one  amid  these  shades  was  born, 

Beneath  this  turf  who  lies, 
Once  beaming  as  the  summer's  morn, 

That  closed  her  gentle  eyes  ; 
If  sinless  angels  love  as  we, 

Who  stood  thy  grave  beside, 
Three  seraph  welcomes  waited  thee, 

The  daughter,  sister,  bride  ! 

I  wandered  to  thy  buried  mound 

When  earth  was  hid  below 
The  level  of  the  glaring  ground, 

Choked  to  its  gates  with  snow, 
And  when  with  summer's  flowery  waves 

The  lake  of  verdure  rolled, 
As  if  a  Sultan's  white-robed  slaves 

Had  scattered  pearls  and  gold. 

Nay,  the  soft  pinions  of  the  air, 
That  lift  this  trembling  tone, 

Its  breath  of  love  may  almost  bear, 
To  kiss  thy  funeral  stone  ; 


And,  now  thy  smiles  have  passed  away, 
For  all  the  joy  they  gave, 

May  sweetest  dews  and  warmest  ray 
Lie  on  thine  early  grave  ! 

When  damps  beneath,  and  storms  above, 

Have  bowed  these  fragile  towers, 
Still  o'er  the  graves  yon  locust-grove 

Shall  swing  its  Orient  flowers ; 
And  I  would  ask  no  mouldering  bust, 

If  e'er  this  humble  line, 
Which  breathed  a  sigh  o'er  other's  dust, 

Might  call  a  tear  on  mine. 


TO  AN   INSECT. 

I  LOVE  to  hear  thine  earnest  voice, 

Wherever  thou  art  hid, 
Thou  testy  little  dogmatist, 

Thou  pretty  Katydid ! 
Thou  mindest  me  of  gentlefolks,  — 

Old  gentlefolks  are  they,  — 
Thou  say'st  an  undisputed  thing 

In  such  a  solemn  way. 

Thou  art  a  female,  Katydid  ! 

I  know  it  by  the  trill 
That  quivers  through  thy  piercing  notes, 

So  petulant  and  shrill ; 
I  think  there  is  a  knot  of  you 

Beneath  the  hollow  tree,  — 
A  knot  of  spinster  Katydids,  — 

Do  Katydids  drink  tea  ? 

0  tell  me  where  did  Katy  live, 

And  what  did  Katy  do  ? 
And  was  she  very  fair  and  young, 

And  yet  so  wicked,  too  ? 
Did  Katy  love  a  naughty  man, 

Or  kiss  more  cheeks  than  one  ? 

1  warrant  Katy  did  no  more 

Than  many  a  Kate  has  done. 

Dear  me  !  I  '11  tell  you  all  about 
My  fuss  with  little  Jane, 


EARLIER  POEMS. 


And  Ann,  with  whom  I  used  to  walk 

So  often  down  the  lane, 
And  all  that  tore  their  locks  of  black, 

Or  wet  their  eyes  of  blue,  — 
Pray  tell  me,  sweetest  Katydid, 

What  did  poor  Katy  do  ? 

Ah  no  1  the  living  oak  shall  crash, 

That  stood  for  ages  still, 
The  rock  shall  rend  its  mossy  base 

Anti  thunder  down  the  hill, 
Before  the  little  Katydid 

Shall  add  one  word,  to  tell 
The  mystic  story  of  the  maid 

Whose  name  she  knows  so  well. 

Peace  to  the  ever-murmuring  race  ! 

And  when  the  latest  one 
Shall  fold  in  death  her  feeble  wings 

Beneath  the  autumn  sun, 
Then  shall  she  raise  her  fainting  voice, 

And  lift  her  drooping  lid, 
And  then  the  child  of  future  years 

Shall  hear  what  Katy  did. 


THE  DILEMMA. 

Now,  by  the  blessed  Paphian  queen, 
Who  heaves  the  breast  of  sweet  sixteen  ; 
By  every  name  I  cut  on  bark 
Before  my  morning  star  grew  dark 
By  Hymen's  torch,  by  Cupid's  dart, 
By  all  that  thrills  the  beating  heart ; 
The  bright  black  eye,  themelting  blue,  — 
1  cannot  choose  between  the  two. 

I  had  a  vision  in  my  dreams  ;  — 
I  saw  a  row  of  twenty  beams  ; 
From  every  beam  a  rope  was  hung, 
In  every  rope  a  lover  swung  ; 
I  asked  the  hue  of  every  eye, 
That  bade  each  luckless  lover  die  ; 
Ten  shadowy  lips  said,  heavenly  blue, 
And  ten  accused  the  darker  hue. 


I  asked  a  matron  which  she  deemed 
With  fairest  light  of  beauty  beamed  ; 
She  answered,  some  thought  both  were 

fair,  — 

Give  her  blue  eyes  and  golden  hair. 
I  might  have  liked  her  judgment  well, 
But,  as  she  spoke,  she  rung  the  bell, 
And  all  her  girls,  nor  small  nor  few, 
Came  marching  in,  — their  eyes  were  blue. 

I  asked  a  maiden  ;  back  she  flung 
The  locks  that  round  her  forehead  hung, 
And  turned  her  eye,  a  glorious  one, 
Bright  as  a  diamond  in  the  sun, 
On  me,  until  beneath  its  rays 
I  felt  as  if  my  hair  would  blaze  ; 
She  liked  all  eyes  but  eyes  of  green  ; 
She  looked  at  me  ;  what  could  she  mean  ? 

Ah  !  many  lids  Love  lurks  between, 
Nor  heeds  the  coloring  of  his  screen  ; 
And  when  his  random  arrows  fly, 
The  victim  falls,  but  knows  not  why. 
Gaze  not  upon  his  shield  of  jet, 
The  shaft  upon  the  string  is  set ; 
Look  not  beneath  his  azure  veil, 
Though  every  limb  were  cased  in  mail. 

Well,  both  might  make  a  martyr  break 
The  chain  that  bound  him  to  the  stake; 
And  both,  with  but  a  single  ray, 
Can  melt  our  very  hearts  away  ; 
And  both,  when  balanced,  hardly  seem 
To  stir  the  scales,  or  rock  the  beam  ; 
But  that  is  dearest,  all  the  while, 
That  wears  for  us  the  sweetest  smile. 


MY  AUNT. 

MY  aunt !  my  dear  unmarried  aunt  ! 

Long  years  have  o'er  her  flown  ; 
Yet  still  she  strains  the  aching  clasp 

That  binds  her  virgin  zone  ; 
I  know  it  hurts  her,  —  though  she  looks 

As  cheerful  as  she  can  ; 


REFLECTIONS   OF  A  PROUD   PEDESTRIAN. 


Her  waist  is  ampler  than  her  life, 
For  life  is  but  a  span. 

My  aunt  !  my  poor  deluded  aunt  ! 

Her  hair  is  almost  gray  ; 
Why  will  she  train  that  winter  curl 

In  such  a  spring-like  way  ? 
How  can  she  lay  her  glasses  down, 

And  say  she  reads  as  well, 
When,  through  a  double  convex  lens, 

She  just  makes  out  to  spell  ? 

Her  father  —  grandpapa  !  forgive 

This  erring  lip  its  smiles  — 
Vowed  she  should  make  the  finest  girl 

Within  a  hundred  miles  ; 
He  sent  her  to  a  stylish  school ; 

'T  was  in  her  thirteenth  June  ; 
And  with  her,  as  the  rules  required, 

"  Two  towels  and  a  spoon." 

They  braced  my  aunt  against  a  board, 

To  make  her  straight  and  tall ; 
They  laced  her  up,  they  starved  her  down, 

To  make  her  light  and  small  ; 
They  pinched  her  feet,  they  singed  her 
hair, 

They  screwed  it  up  with  pins  ; — 
0  never  mortal  suffered  more 

In  penance  for  her  sins. 

So,  when  my  precious  aunt  was  done, 

My  grandsire  brought  her  back  ; 
(By  daylight,  lest  some  rabid  youth 

Might  follow  on  the  track  ;) 
"Ah  ! "  said  my  grandsire,  as  he  shook 

Some  powder  in  his  pan, 
c'  What  could  this  lovely  creature  do 

Against  a  desperate  man  !  " 

Alas  !  nor  chariot,  nor  barouche. 

Nor  bandit  cavalcade, 
Tore  from  the  trembling  father's  arms 

His  all-accomplished  maid. 


For  her  how  happy  had  it  been  ! 

And  Heaven  had  spared  to  me 
To  see  one  sad,  ungathered  rose 

On  my  ancestral  tree. 


REFLECTIONS  OF  A   PPOUD   PEDES- 
TRIAN. 

I  SAW  the  curl  of  his  waving  lash, 
And  the  glance  of  his  knowing  eye, 

And  I  knew   that  he  thought  he  was 

cutting  a  dash, 
As  his  steed  went  thundering  by. 

And  he  may  ride  in  the  rattling  gig, 
Or  flourish  the  Stanhope  gay, 

And  dream  that  he  looks  exceeding  big 
To  the  people  that  walk  in  the  way ; 

But  he  shall  think,  when  the  night  is 

still, 

On  the  stable-boy's  gathering  num- 
bers, 

And  the  ghost  of  many  a  veteran  bill 
Shall  hover  around  his  slumbers  ; 

The  ghastly  dun  shall  worry  his  sleep, 

And  constables  cluster  around  him, 

And  he  shall  creep  from  the  wood-hole 

deep 

Where  their  spectre  eyes  have  found 
him  ! 

Ay  !  gather  your  reins,  and  crack  your 

thong, 

And  bid  your  steed  go  faster  ; 
He   does  not  know,  as   he  scrambles 

along, 
That  he  has  a  fool  for  his  master  ; 

And  hurry  away  on  your  lonely  ride, 
Nor  deign  from  the  mire  to  save  me  ; 

I  will  paddle  it  stoutly  at  your  side 
With  the  tandem  that  nature  gave 
me! 


EAKLIER  POEMS. 


DAILY  TRIALS. 

BY  A  SENSITIVE  MAN. 

0,  THERE  are  times 
When  all  this  fret  and  tumult  that  we 

hear 
Do  seem  more  stale  than  to  the  sexton's 

ear 
His  own  dull  chimes. 

Ding  dong  !  ding  dong  ! 
The  world  is  in  a  simmer  like  a  sea 
Over  a  pent  volcano,  —  woe  is  me 

All  the  day  long  ! 

From  crib  to  shroud  ! 
Nurse  o'er  our  cradles  screameth  lullaby, 
And  friends  in  boots  tramp  round  us  as 
we  die, 

Snuffling  aloud. 

At  morning's  call 
The  small-voiced  pug-dog  welcomes  in 

the  sun, 
And  flea-bit  mongrels,  wakening  one  by 

one, 
Give  answer  all. 

When  evening  dim 

Draws  round  us,  then  the  lonely  cater- 
waul, 
Tart  solo,  sour  duet,  and  general  squall, — 

These  are  our  hymn. 

Women,  with  tongues 
Like  polar  needles,  ever  on  the  jar ; 
Men,  plugless  word-spouts,  whose  deep 
fountains  are 

Within  their  lungs. 

Children,  with  drums 
Strapped  round  them  by  the  fond  pater- 
nal ass  ; 
Peripatetics  with  a  blade  of  grass 

Between  their  thumbs. 


Vagrants,  whose  arts 
Have  caged  some  devil  in  their  mad  ma- 
chine, 
Which  grinding,  squeaks,  with  husky 

groans  between, 
Come  out  by  starts. 

Cockneys  that  kill 
Thin  horses  of  a  Sunday,  —  men,  with 

clams, 
Hoarse  as  young  bisons  roaring  for  their 

dams 
From  hill  to  hill. 

Soldiers,  with  guns, 
Making  a  nuisance  of  the  blessed  air, 
Child-crying  bellmen,  children  in  de- 
spair, 

Screeching  for  buns. 

Storms,  thunders,  waves  ! 
Howl,  crash,  and  bellow  till  ye  get  your 

fill; 
Ye  sometimes  rest ;  men  never  can  be  still 

But  in  their  graves. 


EVENING. 

BY  A  TAILOR. 

DAY  hath  put  on  his  jacket,  and  around 
His  burning  bosom  buttoned  it  with  stars. 
Here  will  I  lay  me  on  the  velvet  grass, 
That  is  like  padding  to  earth's  meagre 

ribs, 
And  hold  communion  with  the  things 

about  me. 

Ah  me  !  how  lovely  is  the  golden  braid 
That  binds  the  skirt  of  night's  descend- 
ing robe  ! 
The  thin  leaves,  quivering  on  their  silken 

threads, 

Do  make  a  music  like  to  rustling  satin, 
As  the  light  breezes  smooth  their  downy 
nap. 


THE   DORCHESTER  GIANT. 


Ha !  what  is  this  that  rises  to  my  touch, 
So  like  a  cushion  ?  Can  it  be  a  cabbage  ? 
It  is,  it  is  that  deeply  injured  flower, 
Which  boys  do  flout  us  with  ;  —  but  yet 

I  love  thee, 
Thou  giant  rose,  wrapped  in  a  green  sur- 

tout. 
Doubtless  in  Eden  thou  didst  blush  as 

bright 
As  these,  thy  puny  brethren  ;  and  thy 

breath 

Sweetened  the  fragrance  of  her  spicy  air  ; 
But  now  thou  seemest  like  a  bankrupt 

beau, 

Stripped  of  his  gaudy  hues  and  essences, 
Andgro  wing  portly  in  his  sober  garments. 

18  that  a  swan  that  rides  upon  the 
water  ? 

0  no,  it  is  that  other  gentle  bird, 
Which  is  the  patron  of  our  noble  calling. 

1  well  remember,  in  my  early  years, 
When  these  young  hands  first  closed 

upon  a  goose  ; 

I  have  a  scar  upon  my  thimble  finger, 
Which  chronicles  the  hour  of  young  am- 
bition. 

My  father  was  a  tailor,  and  his  father, 
And  my  sire's  grandsire,  all  of  them 

were  tailors  ; 
They  had  an  ancient  goose,  —  it  was  an 

heirloom 

From  some  remoter  tailor  of  our  race. 
It  happened  I  did  see  it  on  a  time 
When  none  was  near,  and  I  did  deal 

with  it, 
And  it  did  burn  me,  — 0,  most  fearfully ! 

It  is  a  joy  to  straighten  out  one's  limbs, 
And  leap  elastic  from  the  level  counter, 
Leaving  the  petty  grievances  of  earth, 
The  breaking  thread,  the  din  of  clashing 

shears, 

And  all  the  needles  that  do  wound  the 
spirit, 


For  such  a  pensive  hour  of  soothing  si- 
lence. 

Kind  Nature,  shuffling  in  her  loose  un- 
dress, 

Lays  bare  her  shady  bosom  ;  —  I  can  feel 

With  all  around  me  ;  —  I  can  hail  the 
flowers 

That  sprig  earth's  mantle,  —  and  yon 
quiet  bird, 

That  rides  the  stream,  is  to  me  as  a 
brother. 

The  vulgar  know  not  all  the  hidden 
pockets, 

Where  Nature  stows  away  her  loveliness. 

But  this  unnatural  posture  of  the  legs 

Cramps  my  extended  calves,  andlmustgo 

Where  I  can  coil  them  in  their  wonted 
fashion. 

THE  DORCHESTER  GIANT. 

THERE  was  a  giant  in  time  of  old, 

A  mighty  one  was  he  ; 
He  had  a  wife,  but  she  was  a  scold, 
So  he  kept  her  shut  in  his  mammoth  fold; 

And  he  had  children  three. 

It  happened  to  be  an  election  day, 

And  the  giants  were  choosing  a  king  ; 
The  people  were  not  democrats  then, 
They  did  not  talk  of  the  rights  of  men, 
And  all  that  sort  of  thing. 

Then  the  giant  took  his  children  three, 
And  fastened  them  in  the  pen ; 

The  children  roared ;  quoth  the  giant, 
"Be  still  !" 

And  Dorchester  Heights  and  Milton  Hill 
Rolled  back  the  sound  again. 

Then  he  brought  them  a  pudding  stuffed 

with  plums, 

As  big  as  the  State- House  dome  ; 
Quoth  he,  "There  'a  something  for  you 

to  eat ; 


EARLIER   POEMS. 


So  stop  your  mouths  with  your  'lection 

treat, 
And  wait  till  your  dad  comes  home. " 

So  the  giant  pulled  him  a  chestnut  stout, 

And  whittled  the  boughs  away  ; 
The  boys  and  their  mother  set  up  a  shout, 
Said  he,  "  You  're  in,  and  you  can't  get 

out, 
Bellow  as  loud  as  you  may." 

Off  he  went,  and  he  growled  a  tune 

As  ie  strode  the  fields  along  ; 
'T  is  said  a  buffalo  fainted  away, 
And  fell  as  cold  as  a  lump  of  clay, 
When  he  heard  the  giant's  song. 

But  whether  the  story  's  true  or  not, 

It  is  n't  for  me  to  show  ; 
There  's  many  a  thing  that 's  twice  as 

queer 
In  somebody's  lectures  that  we  hear, 

And  those  are  true,  you  know. 

*  *  * 
What  are  those  lone  ones  doing  now, 

The  wife  and  the  children  sad  ? 
0,  they  are  in  a  terrible  rout, 
Screaming,  and  throwing  their  pudding 
about, 

Acting  as  they  were  mad. 

They  flung  it  over  to  Roxbury  hills, 

They  flung  it  over  the  plain, 
And  all  over  Milton  and  Dorchester  too 
Great  lumps  of  pudding  the  giants  threw; 
They  tumbled  as  thick  as  rain. 

*  »  * 

Giant  and  mammoth  have  passed  away, 

For  ages  have  floated  by  ; 
The  suet  is  hard  as  a  marrow-bone, 
And  every  plum  is  turned  to  a  stone, 

But  there  the  puddings  lie. 

And  if,  some  pleasant  afternoon, 
You  '11  ask  me  out  to  ride, 


The  whole  of  the  story  I  will  tell, 
And  you  shall  see  where  the  puddings  fell, 
'    And  pay  for  the  punch  beside. 


TO  THE  PORTRAIT  OF  "A  LADY." 

IN  THE  ATHENAEUM   GALLERY. 

WELL,  Miss,  I  wonder  where  you  live, 

I  wonder  what 's  your  name, 
I  wonder  how  you  came  to  be 

In  such  a  stylish  frame  ; 
Perhaps  you  were  a  favorite  child, 

Perhaps  an  only  one  ; 
Perhaps  your  friends  were  not  aware 

You  had  your  portrait  done ! 

Yet  you  must  be  a  harmless  soul ; 

I  cannot  think  that  Sin 
Would  care  to  throw  his  loaded  dice, 

With  such  a  stake  to  win  ; 
I  cannot  think  you  would  provoke 

The  poet's  wicked  pen, 
Or  make  young  women  bite  their  lips, 

Or  ruin  fine  young  men. 

Pray,  did  you  ever  hear,  my  love, 

Of  boys  that  go  about, 
Who,  for  a  very  trifling  sum, 

Will  snip  one's  picture  out? 
I  'm  not  averse  to  red  and  white, 

But  all  things  have  their  place, 
I  think  a  profile  cut  in  black 

Would  suit  your  style  of  face ! 

I  love  sweet  features  ;  I  will  own 

That  I  should  like  myself 
To  see  my  portrait  on  a  wall, 

Or  bust  upon  a  shelf ; 
But  nature  sometimes  makes  one  up 

Of  such  sad  odds  and  ends, 
It  really  might  be  quite  as  well 

Hushed  up  among  one's  friends  ! 


THE   COMET. — THE   MUSIC -GEIN DEES. 


THE  COMET. 

THE  Comet !     He  is  on  his  way, 

And  singing  as  he  flies  ; 
The  whizzing  planets  shrink  before 

The  spectre  of  the  skies  ; 
Ah  !  well  may  regal  orbs  burn  blue, 

And  satellites  turn  pale, 
Ten  million  cubic  miles  of  head, 

Ten  billion  leagues  of  tail  ! 

On,  on  by  whistling  spheres  of  light 

He  flashes  and  he  flames  ; 
He  turns  not  to  the  left  nor  right, 

He  asks  them  not  their  names ; 
One  spurn  from  his  demoniac  heel,  — 

Away,  away  they  fly, 
Where  darkness  might  be  bottled  up 

And  sold  for  "Tyrian  dye." 

And  what  would  happen  to  the  land, 

And  how  would  look  the  sea, 
If  in  the  bearded  devil's  path 

Our  earth  should  chance  to  be  ? 
Full  hot  and  high  the  sea  would  boil, 

Full  red  the  forests  gleam  ; 
Methought  I  saw  and  heard  it  all 

In  a  dyspeptic  dream  ! 

I  saw  a  tutor  take  his  tube 

The  Comet's  course  to  spy  ; 
I  heard  a  scream,  —  the  gathered  rays 

Had  stewed  the  tutor's  eye  ; 
I  saw  a  fort,  —  the  soldiers  all 

"Were  armed  with  goggles  green ; 
Pop  cracked  the  guns !  whiz  flew  the  balls ! 

Bang  went  the  magazine  ! 

I  saw  a  poet  dip  a  scroll 

Each  moment  in  a  tub, 
I  read  upon  the  warping  back, 

"  The  Dream  of  Beelzebub"  ; 
He  could  not  see  his  verses  burn, 

Although  his  brain  was  fried, 
And  ever  and  anon  he  bent 

To  wet  them  as  they  dried. 


I  saw  the  scalding  pitch  roll  down 

The  crackling,  sweating  pines, 
And  streams  of  smoke,  like  water-spouts, 

Burst  through  the  rumbling  mines  ; 
I  asked  the  firemen  why  they  made 

Such  noise  about  the  town  ; 
They  answered  not,  —  but  all  the  while 

The  brakes  went  up  and  down. 

I  saw  a  roasting  pullet  sit 

Upon  a  baking  egg  ; 
I  saw  a  cripple  scorch  his  hand 

Extinguishing  his  leg ; 
I  saw  nine  geese  upon  the  wing 

Towards  the  frozen  pole, 
And  every  mother's  gosling  fell 

Crisped  to  a  crackling  coaL 

I  saw  the  ox  that  browsed  the  grass 

Writhe  in  the  blistering  rays, 
The  herbage  in  his  shrinking  jaws 

Was  all  a  fiery  blaze  ; 
I  saw  huge  fishes,  boiled  to  rags, 

Bob  through  the  bubbling  brine  ; 
And  thoughts  of  supper  crossed  my  soul ; 

I  had  been  rash  at  mine. 

Strange  sights  !  strange  sounds  !  0  fear- 
ful dream ! 

Its  memory  haurfts  me  still, 
The  steaming  sea,  the  crimson  glare, 

That  wreathed  each  wooded  hill ; 
Stranger  !  if  through  thy  reeling  brain 

Such  midnight  visions  sweep, 
Spare,  spare,  0,  spare  thine  evening  meal, 

And  sweet  shall  be  thy  sleep  ! 


THE  MUSIC-GRINDERS. 

THERE  are  three  ways  in  which  meo  take 
One's  money  from  his  purse, 

And  very  hard  it  is  to  tell 

Which  of  the  three  is  worse ; 

But  all  of  them  are  bad  enough 
To  make  a  body  curse. 


10 


EARLIER   POEMS. 


You  're  riding  out  some  pleasant  day, 
And  counting  up  your  gains  ; 

A  fellow  jumps  from  out  a  bush, 
And  takes  your  horse's  reins, 

Another  hints  some  words  about 
A  bullet  in  your  brains. 

It  's  hard  to  meet  such  pressing  friends 

In  such  a  lonely  spot ; 
It  'e  very  hard  to  lose  your  cash, 

But  harder  to  be  shot ; 
And  so  you  take  your  wallet  out, 

Though  you  would  rather  not. 

Perhaps  you  're  going  out  to  dine,  — 
Some  odious  creature  begs 

You  '11  hear  about  the  cannon-ball 
That  carried  off  his  pegs, 

And  says  it  is  a  dreadful  thing 
For  men  to  lose  their  legs. 

He  tells  you  of  his  starving  wife, 

His  children  to  be  fed, 
Poor  little,  lovely  innocents, 

All  clamorous  for  bread,  — 
And  so  you  kindly  help  to  put 

A  bachelor  to  bed. 

You  're  sitting  on  your  window-seat, 
Beneath  a  cloudless  moon  ; 

You  hear  a  sound,  that  seems  to  wear 
The  semblance  of  a  tune, 

As  if  a  broken  fife  should  strive 
To  drown  a  cracked  bassoon. 

And  nearer,  nearer  still,  the  tide 

Of  music  seems  to  come, 
There 's  something  like  a  human  voice, 

And  something  like  a  drum  ; 
You  sit  in  speechless  agony, 

Until  your  ear  is  numb. 

Poor  "home,  sweet  home  "  should  seem 

to  be 
A  very  dismal  place  ; 


Your  "  auld  acquaintance"  all  at  once 

Is  altered  in  the  face  ; 
Their  discords  sting  through  Burns  and 
Moore, 

Like  hedgehogs  dressed  in  lace. 

You  think  they  are  crusaders,  sent 
From  some  infernal  clime, 

To  pluck  the  eyes  of  Sentiment, 
And  dock  the  tail  of  Rhyme, 

To  crack  the  voice  of  Melody, 
And  break  the  legs  of  Time. 

But  hark  !  the  air  again  is  still, 

The  music  all  is  ground, 
And  silence,  like  a  poultice,  comes 

To  heal  the  blows  of  sound  ; 
It  cannot  be,  —  it  is,  —  it  is,  — 

A  hat  is  going  round  ! 

No  !     Pay  the  dentist  when  he  leaves 

A  fracture  in  your  jaw, 
And  pay  the  owner  of  the  bear 

That  stunned  you  with  his  paw, 
And  buy  the  lobster  that  has  had 

Your  knuckles  in  his  claw  ; 

But  if  you  are  a  portly  man, 
Put  on  your  fiercest  frown, 

And  talk  about  a  constable 

To  turn  them  out  of  town  ; 

Then  close  your  sentence  with  an  oath, 
And  shut  the  window  down  ! 

And  if  you  are  a  slender  man, 

Not  big  enough  for  that, 
Or,  if  you  cannot  make  a  speech, 

Because  you  are  a  flat, 
Go  very  quietly  and  drop 

A  button  in  the  hat ! 

THE  TREADMILL  SONG. 

THE  stars  are  rolling  in  the  sky, 
The  earth  rolls  on  below, 

And  we  can  feel  the  rattling  wheel 
Revolving  as  we  go. 


THE   SEPTEMBER   GALE. 


11 


Then  tread  away,  my  gallant  boys, 

And  make  the  axle  fly  ; 
Why  should  not  wheels  go  round  about, 

Like  planets  in  the  sky  ? 

Wake  up,  wake  up,  my  duck-legged  man, 

And  stir  your  solid  pegs  ! 
Arouse,  arouse,  my  gawky  friend, 

And  shake  your  spider  legs  ; 
What  though  you  're  awkward  at  the 
trade, 

There  's  time  enough  to  learn,  — 
So  lean  upon  the  rail,  my  lad, 

And  take  another  turn. 

They  've  built  us  up  a  noble  wall, 

To  keep  the  vulgar  out ; 
We  've  nothing  in  the  world  to  do 

But  just  to  walk  about ; 
So  faster,  now,  you  middle  men, 

And  try  to  beat  the  ends,  — 
It 's  pleasant  work  to  ramble  round 

Among  one's  honest  friends. 

Here,  tread  upon  the  long  man's  toes, 

He  sha'  n't  be  lazy  here,  — 
And  punch  the  little  fellow's  ribs, 

And  tweak  that  lubber's  ear,  — 
He  's  lost  them  both,  —  don't  pull  his 
hair, 

Because  he  wears  a  scratch, 
But  poke  him  in  the  further  eye, 

That  is  n't  in  the  patch. 

Hark  !  fellows,  there 's  the  supper-bell, 

And  so  our  work  is  done ; 
It 's  pretty  sport,  —  suppose  we  take 

A  round  or  two  for  fun ! 
If  ever  they  should  turn  me  out, 

When  I  have  better  grown, 
Now  hang  me,  but  I  mean  to  have 

A  treadmill  of  my  own  ! 

THE  SEPTEMBER  GALE. 

I  'M  not  a  chicken  ;  I  have  seen 
Full  many  a  chill  September, 


And  though  I  was  a  youngster  then, 

That  gale  I  well  remember  ; 
The  day  before,  my  kite-string  snapped, 

And  I,  my  kite  pursuing, 
The   wind  whisked  off  my  palm-leaf 
hat;  — 

For  me  two  storms  were  brewing  ! 

It  came  as  quarrels  sometimes  do, 

When  married  folks  get  clashing  ; 
There  was  a  heavy  sigh  or  two, 

Before  the  fire  was  flashing,  — 
A  little  stir  among  the  clouds, 

Before  they  rent  asunder,  — 
A  little  rocking  of  the  trees, 

And  then  came  on  the  thunder. 

Lord  !  how  the  ponds  and  rivers  boiled ! 

They  seemed  like  bursting  craters ! 
And  oaks  lay  scattered  on  the  ground 

As  if  they  were  p'taters  ; 
And  all  above  was  in  a  howl, 

And  all  below  a  clatter,  — 
The  earth  was  like  a  frying-pan, 

Or  some  such  hissing  matter. 

It  chanced  to  be  our  washing-day, 

And  all  our  things  were  drying  ; 
The  storm   came  roaring  through  the 
lines, 

And  set  them  all  a  flying  ; 
I  saw  the  shirts  and  petticoats 

Go  riding  off  like  witches  ; 
I  lost,  ah  !  bitterly  I  wept,  — 

I  lost  my  Sunday  breeches  ! 

I    saw  them    straddling    through    the 
air, 

Alas  !  too  late  to  win  them  ; 
I  saw  them  chase  the  clouds,  as  if 

The  devil  had  been  in  them  ; 
They  were  my  darlings  and  my  pride. 

My  boyhood's  only  riches,  — 
"Farewell,  farewell,"  I  faintly  cried,  — 

"  My  breeches  !  0  my  breeches  !  " 


12 


EARLIER   POEMS. 


That  night  I  saw  them  in  my  dreams, 

How  changed  from  what  I  knew  them  ! 
The  dews  had  steeped  their  faded  threads, 

The  winds  had  whistled  through  them ! 
I  saw  the  wide  and  ghastly  rents 

Where  demon  claws  had  torn  them ; 
A  hole  was  in  their  amplest  part, 

As  if  an  imp  had  worn  them. 

I  have  had  many  happy  years, 

And  tailors  kind  and  clever, 
But  those  young  pantaloons  have  gone 

Forever  and  forever ! 
And  not  till  fate  has  cut  the  last 

Of  all  my  earthly  stitches, 
This  aching  heart  shall  cease  to  mourn 

My  loved,  my  long-lost  breeches ! 


THE  HEIGHT  OF  THE  RIDICULOUS. 

I  WROTE  some  lines  once  on  a  time 
In  wondrous  merry  mood, 

And  thought,  as  usual,  men  would  say 
They  were  exceeding  good. 

They  were  so  queer,  so  very  queer, 
I  laughed  as  I  would  die  ; 

Albeit,  in  the  general  way, 
A  sober  man  am  I. 

I  called  my  servant,  and  he  came  ; 

How  kind  it  was  of  him 
To  mind  a  slender  man  like  me, 

He  of  the  mighty  limb  ! 

"  These  to  the  printer,"  I  exclaimed, 
And,  in  my  humorous  way, 

I  added,  (as  a  trifling  jest,) 

"There  '11  be  the  devil  to  pay." 

He  took  the  paper,  and  I  watched, 
And  saw  him  peep  within  ; 

At  the  first  line  he  read,  his  face 
Was  all  upon  the  grin. 


He  read  the  next ;  the  grin  grew  broad, 
And  shot  from  ear  to  ear  ; 

He  read  the  third  ;  a  chuckling  noise 
I  now  began  to  hear. 

The  fourth  ;  he  broke  into  a  roar  ; 

The  fifth  ;  his  waistband  split ; 
The  sixth  ;  he  burst  five  buttons  off, 

And  tumbled  in  a  fit. 

Ten  days  and  nights,  with  sleepless  eye, 
I  watched  that  wretched  man, 

And  since,  I  never  dare  to  write 
As  funny  as  I  can. 

THE  LAST  READER. 

I  SOMETIMES  sit  beneath  a  tree, 

And  read  my  own  sweet  songs  ; 

Though  naught  they  may  to  others  be, 
Each  humble  line  prolongs 

A  tone  that  might  have  passed  away, 

But  for  that  scarce  remembered  lay. 

I  keep  them  like  a  lock  or  leaf 

That  some  dear  girl  has  given  ; 

Frail  record  of  an  hour,  as  brief 
As  sunset  clouds  in  heaven, 

But  spreading  purple  twilight  still 

High  over  memory's  shadowed  hill. 

They  lie  upon  my  pathway  bleak, 
Those  flowers  that  once  ran  wild, 

As  on  a  father's  careworn  cheek 
The  ringlets  of  his  child  ; 

The  golden  mingling  with  the  gray, 

And  stealing  half  its  snows  away. 

What  care  I  though  the  dust  is  spread 
Around  these  yellow  leaves, 

Or  o'er  them  his  sarcastic  thread 
Oblivion's  insect  weaves, 

Though  weeds  are  tangled  on  the  stream, 

It  still  reflects  my  morning's  beam. 

And  therefore  love  I  such  as  smile 
On  these  neglected  songs 


POETEY:  A  METRICAL  ESSAY. 


13 


No  deem  that  flattery's  needless  wile 

My  opening  bosom  wrongs  ; 
For  who  would  trample,  at  my  side, 
A  few  pale  buds,  my  garden's  pride  ? 

It  may  be  that  my  scanty  ore 

Long  years  have  washed  away, 

And  where  were  golden  sands  before, 
Is  naught  but  common  clay  ; 

Still  something  sparkles  in  the  sun 

For  memory  to  look  back  upon. 

And  when  my  name  no  more  is  heard, 
My  lyre  no  more  is  known, 

Still  let  me,  like  a  winter's  bird, 
In  silence  and  alone, 

Fold  over  them  the  weary  wing 

Once  flashing  through  the  dews  of  spring. 

Yes,  let  my  fancy  fondly  wrap 

My  youth  in  its  decline, 
And  riot  in  the  rosy  lap 

Of  thoughts  that  once  were  mine, 
And  give  the  worm  my  little  store 
When  the  last  reader  reads  no  more  ! 

POETRY : 

A  METRICAL  ESSAY,  READ  BEFORE  THE 
*  B  K  SOCIETY,  HARVARD  UNIVER- 
SITY, AUGUST,  1836. 

TO  CHARLES  WENTWOETH    UPHAM,  THE  FOLLOW- 
ING METRICAL   ESSAY    IS  AFFECTION- 
ATELY  INSCRIBED. 

SCENES  of  my  youth  !  awake  its  slum- 
bering-fire  ! 

Ye  winds  of  Memory,  sweep  the  silent 
lyre  ! 

Ray  of  the  past,  if  yet  thou  canst  appear, 

Break  through  the  clouds  of  Fancy's 
waning  year ; 

Chase  from  her  breast  the  thin  autumnal 
snow, 

If  leaf  or  blossom  still  is  fresh  below  ! 

Long  have  I  wandered  ;  the  returning 
tide 


Brought  back  an  exile  to  his  cradle's  side ; 

And  as  my  bark  her  time-worn  flag  un- 
rolled, 

To  greet  the  land-breeze  with  its  faded 
fold, 

So,  in  remembrance  of  my  boyhood's 
time, 

I  lift  these  ensigns  of  neglected  rhyme ; 

0  more  than  blest,  that,  all  my  wander- 
ings through, 

My  anchor  falls  where  first  my  pennons 
flew! 


The  morning  light,  which  rains  its 
quivering  beams 

Wide  o'er  the  plains,  the  summits,  and 
the  streams, 

In  one  broad  blaze  expands*  its  golden 
glow 

On  all  that  answers  to  its  glance  below  ; 

Yet,  changed  on  earth,  each  far  re- 
flected ray 

Braids  with  fresh  hues  the  shining  brow 
of  day  ; 

Now,  clothed  in  blushes  by  the  painted 
flowers, 

Tracks  on  their  cheeks  the  rosy-fingered 
hours ; 

Now,  lost  in  shades,  whose  dark  en- 
tangled leaves 

Drip  at  the  noontide  from  their  pendent 
eaves, 

Fades  into  gloom,  or  gleams  in  light  again 

From  every  dew-drop  on  the  jewelled 
plain. 

We,  like  the  leaf,  the  summit,  or  the 

wave, 

Reflect  the  light  our  common  nature  gave, 
But  every   sunbeam,   falling  from  her 

throne, 
Wears  on  our  hearts  some  coloring  of  our 

own  ; 
Chilled  in  the  slave,  and  burning  in  the 

free, 


14 


EARLIER  POEMS. 


Like  the  sealed  cavern  by  the  sparkling 

sea  ; 
Lost,  like  the  lightning  in  the  sullen 

clod, 
Or  shedding  radiance,  like  the  smiles  of 

God, 

Pure,  pale  in  Virtue,  as  the  star  above, 
Or  quivering  roseate   on  the  leaves  of 

Love ; 
Glaring  like  noontide,  where  it  glows 

upon 
Ambition's   sands,  —  the  desert  in  the 

sun  ; 

Or  soft  suffusing  o'er  the  varied  scene 
Life's  common   coloring, — intellectual 

green. 

Thus  Heaven,  repeating  its  material 

plan, 

Arched  over  all  the  rainbow  mind  of  man ; 
But  he  who,  blind  to  universal  laws, 
Sees  but  effects,   unconscious  of  their 

cause,  — 

Believes  each  image  in  itself  is  bright, 
Not  robed  in  drapery  of  reflected  light, — 
Is  like  the  rustic  who,  amidst  his  toil, 
Has  found  some  crystal  in  his  meagre 

soil, 

And, lost  in  rapture,  thinks  for  him  alone 
Earth  worked  her  wonders  on  the  spark- 
ling stone, 
Nor  dreams  that  Nature,  with  as  nice  a 

line, 

Carved  countless  angles    through   the 
boundless  mine. 

Thus  err  the  many,  who,  entranced 

to  find 

Unwonted  lustre  in  some  clearer  mind, 
Believe  that  Genius  sets   the  laws  at 

naught 
Which  chain  the  pinions  of  our  wildest 

thought  ; 
Untaught  to  measure,  with  the  eye  of 

art, 


The  wandering  fancy  or  the  wayward 

heart ; 

Who  match  the  little  only  with  the  less, 
And  gaze  in  rapture  at  its  slight  excess, 
Proud  of  a  pebble,  as  the  brightest  gem 
Whose  light  might  crown  an  emperor's 

diadem. 

And,  most  of  all,  the  pure  ethereal 

fire, 
Which  seems  to  radiate  from  the  poet's 

lyre, 

Is  to  the  world  a  mystery  and  a  charm, 
An  Mgis  wielded  on  a  mortal's  arm, 
While   Reason   turns   her  dazzled  eye 

away, 
And  bows  her  sceptre  to  her  subject's 

sway; 
And  thus  the  poet,  clothed  with  godlike 

state, 

Usurped  his  Maker's  title  —  to  create  ; 
He,  whose  thoughts  differing  not  in 

shape,  but  dress, 

What  others  feel,  more  fitly  can  express, 
Sits  like  the  maniac  on  his  fancied 

throne, 
Peeps  through  the  bars,  and  calls  the 

world  his  own. 

There  breathes  no  being  but  has  some 

pretence 

To  that  fine  instinct  called  poetic  sense : 
The  rudest  savage  roaming  through  the 

wild ; 
The    simplest   rustic  bending  o'er  his 

child ; 

The  infant  listening  to  the  warbling  bird ; 
The  mother  smiling  at  its  half-formed 

word ; 
The  boy  uncaged,  who  tracks  the  fields 

at  large  ; 
The  girl,  turned  matron  to  her  babe-like 

charge  ; 
The  freeman,  casting  with  unpurchased 

hand 


POETRY:  A  METRICAL  ESSAY. 


15 


The  vote  that  shakes  the  turrets  of  the 

land  ; 
The  slave,  who,  slumbering  on  his  rusted 

chain, 
Dreams  of  the  palm-trees  on  his  burning 

plain  ; 
The  hot-cheeked  reveller,  tossing  down 

the  wine, 
To  join  the  chorus  pealing  "Auld  lang 

syne  "  ; 
The  gentle  maid,  whose  azure  eye  grows 

dim, 
While  Heaven  is  listening  to  her  evening 

hymn  ; 
The  jewelled  beauty,   when  her  steps 

draw  near 
The  circling  dance  and  dazzling  chaude- 


E'en  trembling  age,  when  Spring's  re- 
newing air 

Waves  the  thin  ringlets  of  his  silvered 
hair  ;  — 

All,  all  are  glowing  with  the  inward 
flame, 

Whose  wider  halo  wreathes  the  poet's 
name, 

While,  unembalmed,  the  silent  dreamer 
dies, 

His  memory  passing  with  his  smiles  and 
sighs  ! 

If  glorious  visions,  born  for  all  man- 
kind, 

The  bright  auroras  of  onr  twilight  mind  ; 

If  fancies,  varying  as  the  shapes  that 
lie 

Stained  on  the  windows  of  the  sunset 
sky  ; 

If   hopes,    that   beckon  with   delusive 


Till  the  eye  dances  in  the  void  of  dreams ; 
If  passions,   following  with  the  winds 

that  urge 
Earth's  wildest  wanderer  to  her  farthest 

verge  ;  — 


If  these  on   all  some   transient  hours 

bestow 

Of  rapture  tingling  with  its  hectic  glow, 
Then  all  are  poets  ;  and,  if  earth  had 

rolled 
Her  myriad  centuries,   and  her  doom 

were  told, 
Each  moaning  billow  of  her  shoreless 

wave 
Would  wail  its  requiem  o'er  a  poet's 

grave  ! 

If  to  embody  in  a  breathing  word 
Tones  that  the  spirit  trembled  when  it 

heard  ; 

To  fix  the  image  all  unveiled  and  warm, 
And  carve  in  language  its  ethereal  form, 
So  pure,  so  perfect,  that  the  lines  express 
No  meagre  shrinking,  no  unlaced  excess ; 
To  feel  that  art,  in  living  truth,  has 

taught 
Ourselves,  reflected  in   the   sculptured 

thought ; — 

If  this  alone  bestow  the  right  to  claim 
The  deathless  garland  and  the  sacred 

name ; 
Then  none  are  poets,  save  the  saints  on 

high, 
Whose  harps  can  murmur  all  that  words 

deny  ! 

But  though  to   none  is  granted  to 

reveal, 
In  perfect  semblance,  all  that  each  may 

feel, 

As  withered  flowers  recall  forgotten  love, 
So,  warmed  to  life,  our  faded  passions 

move 
In  every  line,    where  kindling    fancy 

throws 
The  gleam  of  pleasures,  or  the  shade  of 


When,  schooled  by  time,  the  stately 
queen  of  art 


16 


EARLIER   POEMS. 


Had  smoothed  the  pathways  leading  to 

the  heart, 
Assumed  her  measured  tread,  her  solemn 

tone, 
And  round  her  courts  the  clouds  of  fable 

thrown, 
The  wreaths   of  heaveu  descended  on 

her  shrine, 
And  wondering  earth  proclaimed  the 

Muse  divine. 

Yet,  if  her  votaries  had  but  dared  pro- 
fane 

The  mystic  symbols  of  her  sacred  reign, 
How  had  they  smiled  beneath  the  veil 

to  find 
What  slender  threads  can   chain    the 

mighty  mind ! 

Poets,  like  painters,  their  machinery 

claim, 
And  verse  bestows  the  varnish  and  the 

frame  ; 

Our  grating  English,  whose  Teutonic  jar 
Shakes  the  racked  axle  of  Art's  rattling 

car, 

Fits  like  mosaic  in  the  lines  that  gird 
Fast  in  its  place  each  many-angled  word  ; 
From  Saxon  lips  Anacreon's  numbers 

glide, 

As  once  they  melted  on  the  Teian  tide, 
And,  fresh  transfused,  the  Iliad  thrills 

again 
From   Albion's   cliffs    as  o'er  Achaia's 

plain  ! 
The  proud   heroic,  with  its  pulse-like 

beat, 
Rings  like  the  cymbals  clashing  as  they 

meet  ; 
The  sweet  Spenserian,  gathering  as  it 

flows, 

Sweeps  gently  onward  to  its  dying  close, 
Where  waves  on  waves  in  long  succes- 
sion pour, 
Till  the   ninth  billow  melts  along  the 

shore; 


The  lonely  spirit  of  the  mournful  lay, 
Which   lives   immortal  as  the  verse  of 

Gray, 

In  sable  plumage  slowly  drifts  along, 
On   eagle    pinion,    through   the   air   of 

song  ; 

The  glittering  lyric  bounds  elastic  by, 
With  flashing  ringlets  and  exulting  eye, 
While  every  image,  in  her  airy  whirl, 
Gleams  like  a  diamond  on  a  dancing 

girl  ! 

Born  with  mankind,  with  man's  ex- 
panded range 
And  varying  fates  the  poet's  numbers 

change ; 

Thus  in  his  history  may  we  hope  to  find 
Some  clearer  epochs  of  the  poet's  mind, 
As  from  the  cradle  of  its  birth  we  trace, 
Slow  wandering  forth,  the  patriarchal 
race. 


I. 

WHEN  the  green  earth,  beneath  the 

zephyr's  wing, 
Wears  on  her  breast  the  varnished  buds 

of  Spring ; 
When  the  loosed  current,  as  its  folds 

uncoil, 
Slides  in  the  channels  of  the  mellowed 

soil ; 
When  the  young  hyacinth  returns  to 

seek 
The  air  and  sunshine  with  her  emerald 

beak  ; 
When  the  light  snowdrops,  starting  from 

their  cells, 

Hang  each  pagoda  with  its  silver  bells  ; 
When  the  frail  willow  twines  her  trail- 
ing bow 
With  pallid  leaves  that  sweep  the  soil 

below  ; 
When  the  broad  elm,  sole  empress  of 

the  plain, 


POETRY:  A  METRICAL  ESSAY. 


17 


Whose  circling  shadow  speaks  a  cen- 
tury's reign, 

Wreathes  in  the  clouds  her  regal  dia- 
dem, — 

A  forest  waving  on  a  single  stem  ;  — 

Then  mark  the  poet;  though  to  him 
unknown 

The  quaint-mouthed  titles,  such  as 
scholars  own, 

See  how  his  eye  in  ecstasy  pursues 

The  steps  of  Nature  tracked  in  radiant 
hues  ; 

Kay,  in  thyself,  whate'er  may  be  thy 
fate, 

Pallid  with  toil,  or  surfeited  with  state, 

Mark  how  thy  fancies,  with  the  vernal 
rose, 

Awake,  all  sweetness,  from  their  long 
repose  ; 

Then  turn  to  ponder  o'er  the  classic 
page, 

Traced  with  the  idyls  of  a  greener 
age, 

And  learn  the  instinct  which  arose  to 


Art's  earliest  essay,  and  her  simplest 
form. 

To  themes  like  these  her  narrow  path 

confined 
The  first-born  impulse  moving  in  the 

mind  ; 
In  vales  unshaken  by  the    trumpet's 

sound, 
Where  peaceful  Labor  tills  his  fertile 

ground, 

The  silent  changes  of  the  rolling  years, 
Marked  on  the  soil,  or  dialled  on  the 

spheres, 
The    crested    forests    and    the  colored 

flowers, 
The  dewy  grottos    and    the    blushing 

bowers, 
These,  and  their  guardians,  who,  with 

liquid  names, 


Strephons  and  Chloes,  melt  in  mutual 
flames, 

Woo  the  young  Muses  from  their  moun- 
tain shade, 

To  make  Arcadias  in  the  lonely  glade. 

Nor  think  they  visit  only  with  their 

smiles 

The  fabled  valleys  and  Elysian  isles  ; 
He  who  is  wearied  of  his  village  plain 
May  roam  the  Edens  of  the  world  in 

vain. 
'T  is  not   the    star-crowned  cliff,   the 

cataract's  flow, 
The  softer  foliage,  or  the  greener  glow, 
The  lake  of  sapphire,  or  the  spar-hung 

cave, 

The  brighter  sunset,  or  the  broader  wave, 
Can  warm  his  heart  whom  every  wind 

has  blown 
To  every  shore,  forgetful  of  his  own. 

Home  of  our  childhood !  how  affection 

clings 
And  hovers  round  thee  with  her  seraph 

wings ! 
Dearer  thy  hills,  though  clad  in  autumn 

brown, 
Than  fairest  summits  which  the  cedars 

crown ! 
Sweeter  the  fragrance  of  thy  summer 

breeze 

Than  all  Arabia  breathes  along  the  seas ! 
The  stranger's  gale  wafts  home  the  exile's 

sigh, 
For  the  heart's  temple  is  its  own  blue 

sky ! 

O  happiest  they,   whose  early  love 

unchanged, 
Hopes  undissolved,  and  friendship  un- 

estranged, 
Tired    of   their  wanderings,   still    can 

deign  to  see 
Love,  hopes,  and  friendship,  centring 

all  in  thee ! 


18 


EARLIER  POEMS. 


And  thou,  my  village  !   as  again  I 

tread 

Amidst  thy  living,  and  above  thy  dead ; 
Though  some  fair  playmates  guard  with 

chaster  fears 
Their  cheeks,  grown  holy  with  the  lapse 

of  years ; 
Though  with  the  dust  some  reverend 

locks  may  blend, 
Where  life's  last  mile-stone  marks  the 

journey's  end ; 

On  every  bud  the  changing  year  recalls, 
The  brightening  glance  of  morning  mem- 
ory falls, 
Still  following  onward  as  the  months 

unclose 

The  balmy  lilac  or  the  bridal  rose  ; 
And  still  shall  follow,  till  they  sink  once 

more 
Beneath  the  snow-drifts  of  the  frozen 

shore, 
As  when  my  bark,  long  tossing  in  the 

gale, 
Furled  in  her  port  her  tempest-rended 

sail! 

What  shall  I  give  thee  ?  Can  a  sim- 
ple lay, 

Flung  on  thy  bosom  like  a  girl's  bouquet, 

Do  more  than  deck  thee  for  an  idle 
hour, 

Then  fall  unheeded,  fading  like  the 
flower  ? 

Yet,  when  I  trod,  with  footsteps  wild 
and  free, 

The  crackling  leaves  beneath  yon  linden- 
tree, 

Panting  from  play,  or  dripping  from  the 
stream, 

How  bright  the  visions  of  my  boyish 
dream  ! 

Or,  modest  Charles,  along  thy  broken 
edge, 

Black  with  soft  ooze  and  fringed  with 
arrowy  sedge, 


As  once  I  wandered  in  the  morning  sun, 
With  reeking  sandal  and  superfluous 

gun; 

How  oft,  as  Fancy  whispered  in  the  gale, 
Thou  wast  the  Avon  of  her  flattering 

tale! 
Ye  hills,  whose  foliage,  fretted  on  the 

skies, 
Prints  shadowy  arches  on  their  evening 

dyes, 
How  should  my  song  with  holiest  charm 

invest 

Each  dark  ravine  and  forest-lifting  crest  ! 
How  clothe  in  beauty  each  familiar  scene, 
Till  all  was  classic  on  my  native  green  ! 

As  the  drained  fountain,  filled  with 

autumn  leaves, 
The  field  swept  naked  of  its  garnered 

sheaves  ; 
So  wastes  at  noon  the  promise  of  our 

dawn, 
The  springs  all  choking,  and  the  harvest 

gone. 

Yet  hear  the  lay  of  one  whose  natal  star 
Still  seemed  the  brightest  when  it  shone 

afar; 
Whose  cheek,  grown  pallid  with  ungra- 

cious toil, 

Glows  in  the  welcome  of  his  parent  soil  ; 
And  ask  no  garlands  sought  beyond  the 

tide, 
But  take  the  leaflets  gathered  at  your 


side.1 


II. 


BUT  times  were  changed  ;  the  torch 

of  terror  came, 
To  light  the  summits  with  the  beacon's 

flame  ; 
The  streams  ran  crimson,  the  tall  moun- 

tain pines 
Rose  a  new  forest  o'er  embattled  lines  ; 

i  For  "  The  Cambridge  Churchyard,"  see  p.  2. 


POETEY:  A  METRICAL  ESSAY. 


19 


The  bloodless  sickle  lent  the  warrior's 
steel, 

The  harvest  bowed  beneath  his  chariot 
wheel ; 

Where  late  the  wood-dove  sheltered  her 
repose 

The  raven  waited  for  the  conflict's  close  ; 

The  cuirassed  sentry  walked  his  sleep- 
less round 

Where  Daphne  smiled  or  Amaryllis 
frowned  ; 

Where  timid  minstrels  sung  their  blush- 
ing charms, 

Some  wild  Tyrtseus  called  aloud,  "To 
arms  ! " 

When  Glory  wakes,  when  fiery  spirits 
leap, 

Roused  by  her  accents  from  their  tran- 
quil sleep, 

The  ray  that  flashes  from  the  soldier's 
crest 

Lights,  as  it  glances,  in  the  poet's 
breast ;  — 

Not  in  pale  dreamers,  whose  fantastic 
lay 

Toys  with  smooth  trifles  like  a  child  at 
play, 

But  men,  who  act  the  passions  they  in- 
spire, 

Who  wave  the  sabre  as  they  sweep  the 
lyre! 

Ye  mild  enthusiasts,  whose  pacific 
frowns 

Are  lost  like  dew-drops  caught  in  burn- 
ing towns, 

Pluck  as  ye  will  the  radiant  plumes  of 
fame, 

Break  Caesar's  bust  to  make  yourselves 
a  name  ; 

But,  if  your  country  bares  the  avenger's 
blade 

For  wrongs  unpunished,  or  for  debts 
unpaid, 


When  the  roused  nation  bids  her  armies 
form, 

And  screams  her  eagle  through  the  gath- 
ering storm, 

When  from  your  ports  the  bannered 
frigate  rides, 

Her  black  bows  scowling  to  the  crested 
tides, 

Your  hour  has  past ;  in  vain  your  feeble 
cry, 

As  the  babe's  wailings  to  the  thundering 
sky  I 

Scourge   of  mankind !   with  all  the 

dread  array 

That  wraps  in  wrath  thy  desolating  way, 
As  the  wild  tempest  wakes  the  slumber- 
ing sea, 
Thou  only  teachest  all  that  man  can 

be. 

Alike  thy  tocsin  has  the  power  to  charm 
The  toil-knit  sinews  of  the  rustic's  arm, 
Or  swell  the  pulses  in  the  poet's  veins, 
And   bid   the   nations   tremble  at   his 
strains. 

The  city  slept  beneath  the  moonbeam's 
glance, 

Her  white  walls  gleaming  through  the 
vines  of  France, 

And  all  was  hushed,  save  where  the 
footsteps  fell, 

On  some  high  tower,  of  midnight  senti- 
nel. 

But  one  still  watched  ;  no  self-encircled 
woes 

Chased  from  his  lids  the  angel  of  repose ; 

He  watched,  he  wept,  for  thoughts  of 
bitter  years 

Bowed  his  dark  lashes,  wet  with  burning 
tears  : 

His  country's  sufferings  and  her  chil- 
dren's shame 

Streamed  o'er  his  memory  like  a  forest's 
flame, 


20 


EARLIER  POEMS. 


Each  treasured  insult,  each  remembered 

wrong, 
Rolled  through  his  heart  and  kindled 

into  song  : 

His  taper  faded  ;  and  the  morning  gales 
Swept  through  the  world  the  war-song 

of  Marseilles  ! 

Now,  while  around  the  smiles  of  Peace 
expand, 

And  Plenty's  wreaths  festoon  the  laugh- 
ing land ; 

While  France  ships  outward  her  reluc- 
tant ore, 

And  half  our  navy  basks  upon  the  shore ; 

From  ruder  themes  our  meek-eyed  Muses 
turn 

To  crown  with  roses  their  enamelled  urn. 


If  e'er  again  return  those  awful  days 

Whose  clouds  were  crimsoned  with  the 
beacon's  blaze, 

Whose  grass  was  trampled  by  the  sol- 
dier's heel, 

Whose  tides  were  reddened  round  the 
rushing  keel, 

God  grant  some  lyre  may  wake  a  nobler 
strain 

To  rend  the  silence  of  our  tented  plain  ! 

When  Gallia's  flag  its  triple  fold  dis- 
plays, 

Her  marshalled  legions  peal  the  Mar- 
seillaise ; 

When  round  the  German  close  the  war- 
clouds  dim, 

Far  through  their  shadows  floats  his 
battle-hymn  ; 

When,  crowned  with  joy,  the  camps  of 
England  ring, 

A  thousand  voices  shout,  "  God  save  the 
King!" 

When  victory  follows  with  our  eagle's 
glance, 

Our  nation's  anthem  pipes  a  country 
dance! 


Some  prouder  Muse,  when  comes  the 
hour  at  last, 

May  shake  our  hillsides  with  her  bugle- 
blast  ; 

Not  ours  the  task  ;  but  since  the  lyric 
dress 

Relieves  the  statelier  with  its  sprightli- 
ness, 

Hear  an  old  song,  which  some,  per- 
chance, have  seen 

In  stale  gazette,  or  cobwebbed  magazine. 

There  was  an  hour  when  patriots  dared 
profane 

The  mast  that  Britain  strove  to  bow  in 
vain  ; 

And  one,  who  listened  to  the  tale  of 
shame, 

Whose  heart  still  answered  to  that 
sacred  name, 

Whose  eye  still  followed  o'er  his  coun- 
try's tides 

Thy  glorious  flag,  our  brave  Old  Iron- 
sides ! 

From  yon  lone  attic,  on  a  summer's  morn, 

Thus  mocked  the  spoilers  with  his 
school-boy  scorn.1 


III. 

WHEN  florid  Peace  resumed  her  golden 

reign, 
And  arts  revived,  and  valleys  bloomed 

again ; 
While  War  still  panted  on  his  broken 

blade, 
Once  more  the  Muse  her  heavenly  wing 

essayed. 
Rude  was  the  song  ;  some  ballad,  stern 

and  wild, 
Lulled  the  light  slumbers  of  the  soldier's 

child ; 
Or  young  romancer,  with  his  threatening 

glance 

i  For  "Old  Ironsides,"  see  p.  1- 


POETRY:  A  METRICAL  ESSAY. 


21 


And  fearful  fables  of  his  bloodless  lance, 
Scared  the  soft  fancy  of  the  clinging  girls, 
Whose  snowy  fingers  smoothed  his  raven 

curls. 
But  when  long  years  the  stately  form 

had  bent, 

And  faithless  memory  her  illusions  lent, 
So  vast  the  outlines  of  Tradition  grew, 
That  History  wondered  at  the  shapes 

she  drew, 
And  veiled  at  length  their  too  ambitious 

hues 
Beneath  the  pinions  of  the  Epic  Muse. 

Far  swept  her  wing  ;  for  stormier  days 

had  brought 
With  darker  passions    deeper  tides  of 

thought. 

The  camp's  harsh  tumult  and  the  con- 
flict's glow, 

The  thrill  of  triumph  and  the  gasp  of  woe, 
The  tender  parting  and  the  glad  return, 
The  festal  banquet  and  the  funeral  urn, — 
And  all  the  drama  which  at  once  uprears 
Its  spectral  shadows  through  the  clash 

of  spears, 
From  camp  and  field  to  echoing  verse 

transferred, 

Swelled  the  proud  song  that  listening 
nations  heard. 

Why  floats  the  amaranth  in  eternal 

bloom 

O'er  Ilium's  turrets  and  Achilles'  tomb  ? 
Why  lingers  fancy,  where  the  sunbeams 

smile 

On  Circe's  gardens  and  Calypso's  isle  ? 
Why  follows  memory  to  the  gate  of 

Troy 
Her  plumed  defender  and  his  trembling 

boy? 
Lo !  the  blind  dreamer,  kneeling  on  the 

sand, 
To  trace  these  records  with  his  doubtful 

hand  ; 


In  fabled  tones  his  own  emotion  flows, 
And  other  lips  repeat  his  silent  woes  ; 
In  Hector's  infant  see  the  babes  that 

shun 
Those  deathlike  eyes,  unconscious  of  the 

sun, 

Or  in  his  hero  hear  himself  implore, 
"Give  me  to  see,  and  Aiax  asks  no 

more  ! " 

Thus  live  undying  through  the  lapse 

of  time 
The    solemn    legends  of  the  warrior's 

clime  ; 

Like  Egypt's  pyramid,  or  Psestutn's  fane, 
They  stand  the  heralds  of  the  voiceless 

plain  ; 
Yet  not  like  them,  for  Time,  by  slow 

degrees, 

Saps  the  gray  stone,  and  wears  the  em- 
broidered frieze, 
And    Isis    sleeps  beneath  her  subject 

Nile, 
And    crumbled    Neptune    strews    his 

Dorian  pile ; 
But  Art's  fair  fabric,  strengthening  as 

it  rears 
Its  laurelled  columns  through  the  mist 

of  years, 

As  the  blue  arches  of  the  bending  skies 
Still  gird  the  torrent,  following  as  it 

flies, 
Spreads,   with   the  surges  bearing  on 

mankind, 
Its  starred  pavilion  o'er  the  tides  of 

mind  ! 

In  vain  the  patriot  asks  some  lofty  lay 

To  dress  in  state  our  wars  of  yesterday. 

The  classic  days,  those  mothers  of  ro- 
mance, 

That  roused  a  nation  for  a  woman's 
glance  ; 

The  age  of  mystery  with  its  hoarded 
power, 


22 


EAELIER   POEMS. 


That  girt  the  tyrant  in  his  storied  tower, 
Have  past  and  faded  like  a  dream  of 

youth, 
And  riper  eras  ask  for  history's  truth. 

On  other  shores,  above  their  moulder- 
ing towns, 

In  sullen  pomp  the  tall  cathedral  frowns, 
Pride  in  its  aisles,  and  paupers  at  the 

door, 
Which  feeds  the  beggars  whom  it  fleeced 

of  yore. 
Simple    and  frail,    our    lowly  temples 

throw 
Their   slender  shadows  on   the   paths 

below ; 
Scarce  steal  the  winds,  that  sweep  his 

woodland  tracks, 
The  larch's  perfume  from  the  settler's 

axe, 

Ere,  like  a  vision  of  the  morning  air, 
His    slight-framed    steeple    marks    the 

house  of  prayer ; 
Its  planks  all   reeking,  and   its  paint 

undried, 

Its  rafters  sprouting  on  the  shady  side, 
It  sheds  the  raindrops  from  its  shingled 

eaves, 
Ere  its  green  brothers  once  have  changed 

their  leaves. 

Yet  Faith's  pure  hymn,  beneath  its 
shelter  rude, 

Breathes  out  as  sweetly  to  the  tangled 
wood, 

As  where  the  rays  through  pictured  glo- 
ries pour 

On  marble  shaft  and  tessellated  floor ; — 

Heaven  asks  no  surplice  round  the  heart 
that  feels, 

And  all  is  holy  where  devotion  kneels. 

Thus  on  the  soil  the  patriot's  knee 

should  bend, 

Which  holds  the  dust  once  living  to 
defend  ; 


Where'er  the  hireling  shrinks  before 
the  free, 

Each  pass  becomes  "  a  new  Thermopy- 
lae"! 

Where'er  the  battles  of  the  brave  are 
won, 

There  every  mountain  "looks  on  Mara- 
thon "  ! 

Our  fathers  live  ;  they  guard  in  glory 

still 
The  grass-grown   bastions  of  the   for- 

tressed  hill ; 

Still  ring  the  echoes  of  the  trampled  gorge, 
With  God  and  Freedom!  England  and 

Saint  George  I 

The  royal  cipher  on  the  captured  gun 
Mocks  the   sharp  night-dews  and  the 

blistering  sun  ; 
The  red-cross  banner  shades  its  captor's 

bust, 
Its  folds  still  loaded  with  the  conflict's 

dust ; 
The  drum,    suspended   by  its  tattered 

marge, 
Once  rolled  and  rattled  to  the  Hessian's 

charge  ; 
The  stars  have  floated  from  Britannia's 

mast, 
The  redcoat's  trumpets  blown  the  rebel's 

blast. 

Point  to  the  summits  where  the  brave 
have  bled, 

Where  every  village  claims  its  glorious 
dead ; 

Say,  when  their  bosoms  met  the  bay- 
onet's shock, 

Their  only  corselet  was  the  rustic  frock  ; 

Say,  when  they  mustered  to  the  gather- 
ing horn, 

The  titled  chieftain  curled  his  lip  in 
scorn, 

Yet,  when  their  leader  bade  his  lines 
advance, 


POETRY:  A  METRICAL  ESSAY. 


23 


No  musket  wavered  in  the  lion's  glance  ; 
Say,   when  they  fainted  in  the  forced 

retreat, 
They  tracked  the  snow-drifts  with  their 

bleeding  feet, 
Yet  still  their  banners,  tossing  in  the 

blast, 

Bore  Ever  Ready,  faithful  to  the  last, 
Through   storm   and    battle,    till  they 

waved  again 
On    Yorktown's  hills    and    Saratoga's 

plain  ! 

Then,  if  so  fierce  the  insatiate  pa- 
triot's flame, 

Truth  looks  too  pale,  and  history  seems 
too  tame, 

Bid  him  await  some  new  Coltimbiad's 
page, 

To  gild  the  tablets  of  an  iron  age, 

And  save  his  tears,  which  yet  may  fall 
upon 

Some  fabled  field,  some  fancied  Wash- 


ington 


IV. 


BUT  once  again,  from  their  ^Eolian 

cave, 
The  winds  of  Genius  wandered  on  the 

wave. 
Tired  of  the  scenes  the  timid  pencil 

drew, 
Sick  of  the  notes  the  sounding  clarion 

blew  ; 

Sated  with  heroes  who  had  worn  so  long 
The  shadowy  plumage  of  historic  song  ; 
The  new-born  poet  left  the  beaten 

course, 
To  track  the  passions  to  their  living 

source. 

Then  rose    the    Drama  ;  —  and    the 

world  admired 

Her  varied  page  with  deeper  thought 
inspired  ; 


Bound  to  no  clime,  for  Passion's  throb 

is  one 
In   Greenland's   twilight  or  in  India's 


Born  for  no  age,  —  for  all  the  thoughts 

that  roll 

In  the  dark  vortex  of  the  stormy  soul, 
Unchained   in  song,  no  freezing  years 

can  tame ; 
God  gave  them  birth,   and  man  is  still 

the  same. 

So  full  on  life  her  magic  mirror  shone, 
Her  sister  Arts  paid    tribute  to    her 

throne  ; 
One  reared  her  temple,  one  her  canvas 

warmed, 
And  Music  thrilled,   while   Eloquence 

informed. 

The  weary  rustic  left  his  stinted  task 
For  smiles   and  tears,  the  dagger  and 

the  mask  ; 
The  sage,  turned  scholar,  half  forgot  his 

lore, 

To  be  the  woman  he  despised  before  ; 
O'er  sense  and  thought  she  threw  her 

golden  chain, 

And  Time,  the  anarch,  spares  her  death- 
less reign. 

Thus  lives  Medea,  in  our  tamer  age, 
As  when  her  buskin  pressed  the  Grecian 

stage; 
Not   in  the  cells  where  frigid  learning 

delves 
In   Aldine   folios  mouldering  on  their 

shelves ; 

But  breathing,  burning  in  the  glitter- 
ing throng, 
Whose  thousand  bravoes  roll  untired 

along, 
Circling    and    spreading    through    the 

gilded  halls, 
From  London's  galleries  to  San  Carlo'* 

walls  ! 


24 


EARLIER   POEMS. 


Thus  shall  he  live  whose  more  than 

mortal  name 
Mocks  with  its  ray  the  pallid  torch  of 

Fame  ; 

So  proudly  lifted,  that  it  seems  afar 
No  earthly  Pharos,  but  a  heavenly  star  ; 
Who,    unconfined    to     Art's     diurnal 

bound, 
Girds  her  whole  zodiac  in  his  flaming 

round, 
And  leads  the   passions,   like  the   orb 

that  guides, 
From  pole  to  pole,  the  palpitating  tides  ! 


V. 

THOUGH  round  the  Muse  the  robe  of 

song  is  thrown, 

Think  not  the  poet  lives  in  verse  alone. 
Long  ere  the   chisel    of   the  sculptor 

taught 
The  lifeless  stone  to  mock  the  living 

thought ; 

Longere  the  painter  bade  the  canvasglow 
"With  every  line  the   forms  of  beauty 

know  ; 

Long  ere  the  iris  of  the  Muses  threw 
On  every  leaf  its  own  celestial  hue  ; 
In  fable's   dress   the   breath  of  genius 

poured, 
And  warmed  the  shapes  that  later  times 

adored. 

Untaught  by  Science  how  to  forge  the 
keys, 

That  loose  the  gates  of  Nature's  myste- 
ries ; 

Unschooled  by  Faith,  who,  with  her 
angel  tread, 

Leads  through  the  labyrinth  with  a 
single  thread, 

His  fancy,  hovering  round  her  guarded 
tower, 

Rained  through  its  bars  like  Danae's 
golden  shower. 


He  spoke  ;  the  sea-nymph  answered 
from  her  cave  : 

He  called  ;  the  riaiad  left  her  mountain 
wave  : 

He  dreamed  of  beauty  ;  lo,  amidst  his 
dream, 

Narcissus,  mirrored  in  the  breathless 
stream ; 

And  night's  chaste  empress,  in  her  bri- 
dal play, 

Laughed  through  the  foliage  where 
Endymion  lay ; 

And  ocean  dimpled,  as  the  languid  swell 

Kissed  the  red  lip  of  Cytherea's  shell : 

Of  power,  —  Bellona  swept  the  crimson 
field, 

And  blue-eyed  Pallas  shook  her  Gor- 
gon shield ; 

O'er  the  hushed  waves  their  mightier 
monarch  drove, 

And  Ida  trembled  to  the  tread  of  Jove  ! 

So  every  grace  that  plastic  language 

knows 

To  nameless  poets  its  perfection  owes. 
The  rough-hewn    words    to    simplest 

thoughts  confined 
Were  cut  and  polished  in  their  nicei 

mind ; 

Caught  on  their  edge,  imagination's  ray 
Splits    into    rainbows,      shooting    far 

away  ;  — 
From  sense  to  soul,  from  soul  to  sense, 

it  flies, 

And  through  all  nature  links  analogies ; 
He  who   reads   right  will  rarely  look 

upon 
A  better  poet  than  his  lexicon  ! 

There  is  a  race,  which  cold,  ungenial 

skies 
Breed  from  decay,  as  fungous  growths 

arise  ; 
Though  dying  fast,   yet  springing  fast 

again, 


POETRY:  A  METRICAL  ESSAY. 


25 


Which  still  usurps  an  unsubstantial 
reign, 

With  frames  too  languid  for  the  charms 
of  sense, 

And  minds  worn  down  with  action  too 
intense  ; 

Tired  of  a  world  whose  joys  they  never 
knew, 

Themselves  deceived,  yet  thinking  all 
untrue  ; 

Scarce  men  without,  and  less  than  girls 
within, 

Sick  of  their  life  before  its  cares  be- 
gin ;  — 

The  dull  disease,  which  drains  their 
feeble  hearts, 

To  life's  decay  some  hectic  thrills  im- 
parts, 

And  lends  a  force,  which,  like  the 
maniac's  power, 

Pays  with  blank  years  the  frenzy  of  an 


hour. 

And    this    is    Genius  ! 
Heaven  degrade 


f,    does 


The  manly  frame,  for  health,  for  action 

made  ? 
Break  down  the  sinews,  rack  the  brow 

with  pains, 
Blanch  the  bright  cheek,  and  drain  the 

purple  veins, 
To  clothe  the  mind  with  more  extended 

sway, 
Thus  faintly  struggling  in   degenerate 

clay? 

ISTo  !  gentle  maid,  too  ready  to  ad- 
mire, 

Though  false  its  notes,  the  pale  enthusi- 
ast's lyre  ; 

If  this  be  genius,  though  its  bitter  springs 

Glowed  like  the  morn  beneath  Aurora's 
wings, 

Seek  not  the  source  whose  sullen  bosom 


But  fruitless  flowers,  and  dark,  enven- 
omed weeds. 

But,  if  so  bright  the  dear  illusion 
seems, 

Thou  wouldst  be  partner  of  thy  poet's 
dreams, 

And  hang  in  rapture  on  his  bloodless 
charms, 

Or  die,  like  Raphael,  in  his  angel  arms  ; 

Go,  and  enjoy  thy  blessed  lot,  —  to 
share 

In  Cowper's  gloom,  or  Chatterton's  de- 
spair ! 

Not  such  were  they,  whom,  wander- 
ing o'er  the  waves, 
I  looked  to  meet,  but  only  found  their 

graves ; 
If  friendship's  smile,  the  better  part  of 

fame, 
Should  lend  my  song  the  only  wreath  I 

claim, 
Whose   voice   would  greet  me  with  a 

sweeter  tone, 
Whose  living  hand  more  kindly  press 

my  own, 
Than  theirs,  —  could  Memory,  as  her 

silent  tread 
Prints  the  pale  flowers  that  blossom  o'er 

the  dead, 
Those   breathless   lips,   now  closed  in 

peace,  restore, 
Or  wake  those  pulses  hushed  to  beat  no 

more  ? 

Thou  calm,  chaste  scholar  !  I  can  see 

thee  now, 
The  first   young  laurels  on  thy  pallid 

brow, 
O'er  thy  slight   figure  floating  lightly 

down 

In  graceful  folds  the  academic  gown, 
On  thy  curled  lip  the  classic  lines,  that 

taught 


26 


EARLIER  POEMS. 


How  nice  the    mind    that  sculptured 

them  with  thought, 
And  triumph  glistening    in  the  clear 

blue  eye, 
Too  bright  to  live,  —  but  0,  too  fair  to 

die! 

And  thou,  dear  friend,  whom  Science 

still  deplores,    '  -^\^^   £ 
And  love  still  mourns,  on  ocean-severed 

shores, 
Though  the  bleak  forest  twice  has  bowed 

with  snow, 
Since  thou  wast  laid  its  budding  leaves 

below, 
Thine  image  mingles  with  my  closing 

strain, 

As  when  we  wandered  by  the  turbid  Seine, 
Both  blest  with  hopes,  which  revelled, 

bright  and  free, 
On  all  we  longed,  or  all  we  dreamed  to 

be ; 
To  thee  the  amaranth  and  the  cypress 

fell,— 
And  I  was  spared  to  breathe  this  last 

farewell ! 

But  lived  there  one  in  uuremembered 

days, 
Or  lives  there  still,  who  spurns  the  poet's 


Whose   fingers,    dewy   from    Castalia's 

springs, 
Best  on  the  lyre,  yet  scorn  to  touch  the 

strings  ? 
Who  shakes  the  senate  with  the  silver 

tone 
The  groves  of  Pindus  might  have  sighed 

to  own? 


Have  such  e'er  been  ?  Eemember  Can- 
ning's name ! 

Do  such  still  live  ?  Let  "  Alaric's  Dirge" 
proclaim  ! 

Immortal  Art  !  where'er  the  rounded 

sky 
Bends  o'er  the  cradle  where  thy  children 

lie, 
Their  home  is  earth,  their  herald  every 

tongue 
Whose  accents  echo  to  the  voice  that 

sung. 

One  leap  of  Ocean  scatters  on  the  sand 
The  quarried  bulwarks  of  the  loosening 

land ; 
One  thrill  of  earth  dissolves  a  century's 

toil 
Strewed  like  the  leaves  that  vanish  in 

the  soil ; 

One  hill  o'erflows,  and  cities  sink  below, 
Their  marbles  splintering  in  the  lava's 

glow; 
But  one  sweet  tone,  scarce  whispered  to 

the  air, 
From  shore  to  shore  the  blasts  of  ages 

bear ; 
One  humble  name,  which  oft,  perchance, 

has  borne 
The  tyrant's  mockery  and  the  courtier's 

scorn, 
Towers  o'er  the  dust  of  earth's  forgotten 

graves, 
As  once,  emerging  through  the  waste  of 

waves, 
The  rocky  Titan,  round  whose  shattered 

spear 
Coiled  the  last  whirlpool  of  the  drowning 

sphere  1 


ADDITIONAL    POEMS. 


1837-1848. 


THE  PILGRIM'S  VISION. 

IN  the  hour  of  twilight  shadows 

The  Pilgrim  sire  looked  out ; 
He  thought  of  the  "bloudy  Salvages" 

That  lurked  all  round  about, 
Of  Wituwamet's  pictured  knife 

And  Pecksuot's  whooping  shout ; 
For  the  baby's  limbs  were  feeble, 

Though  his  father's  arms  were  stout. 

His  home  was  a  freezing  cabin, 

Too  bare  for  the  hungry  rat, 
Its  roof  was  thatched  with  ragged  grass, 

And  bald  enough  of  that ; 
The  hole  that  served  for  casement 

Was  glazed  with  an  ancient  hat ; 
And  the  ice  was  gently  thawing 

From  the  log  whereon  he  sat. 

Along  the  dreary  landscape 

His  eyes  went  to  and  fro, 
The  trees  all  clad  in  icicles, 

The  streams  that  did  not  flow  ; 
A  sudden  thought  flashed  o'er  him, — 

A  dream  of  long  ago, — 
He  smote  his  leathern  jerkin, 

And  murmured,  "Even  so  ! " 

"  Come  hither,  God-be-Glorified, 

And  sit  upon  my  knee, 
Behold  the  dream  unfolding, 

Whereof  I  spake  to  thee 


By  the  winter's  hearth  in  Leyden 

And  on  the  stormy  sea ; 
True  is  the  dream's  beginning,  — 

So  may  its  ending  be  ! 

"  I  saw  in  the  naked  forest 

Our  scattered  remnant  cast, 
A  screen  of  shivering  branches 

Between  them  and  the  blast ; 
The  snow  was  falling  round  them, 

The  dying  fell  as  fast ; 
I  looked  to  see  them  perish, 

When  lo,  the  vision  passed. 

"  Again  mine  eyes  were  opened  ;  — 

The  feeble  had  waxed  strong, 
The  babes  had  grown  to  sturdy  men, 

The  remnant  was  a  throng  ; 
By  shadowed  lake  and  winding  stream, 

And  all  the  shores  along, 
The  howling  demons  quaked  to  hear 

The  Christian's  godly  song. 

"  They  slept,  —  the  village  fathers,  -^ 

By  river,  lake,  and  shore, 
When  far  adown  the  steep  of  Time 

The  vision  rose  once  more  ; 
I  saw  along  the  winter  snow 

A  spectral  column  pour, 
And  high  above  their  broken  ranks 

A  tattered  flag  they  bore. 

"  Their  Leader  rode  before  them. 
Of  bearing  calm  and  high, 


28 


ADDITIONAL  POEMS. 


The  light  of  Heaven's  own  kindling 

Throned  in  his  awful  eye  ; 
These  were  a  Nation's  champions 

Her  dread  appeal  to  try  ; 
God  for  the  right  !  I  faltered, 

And  lo,  the  train  passed  by. 

"  Once  more  ;  —  the  strife  is  ended, 

The  solemn  issue  tried, 
The  Lord  of  Hosts,  his  mighty  arm 

Has  helped  our  Israel's  side  ; 
Gray  stone  and  grassy  hillock 

Tell  where  our  martyrs  died, 
But  peaceful  smiles  the  harvest, 

And  stainless  flows  the  tide. 

"A  crash,  —  as  when  some  swollen  cloud 

Cracks  o'er  the  tangled  trees  ! 
With  side  to  side,  and  spar  to  spar, 

Whose  smoking  decks  are  these  ? 
I  know  Saint  George's  blood-red  cross, 

Thou  Mistress  of  the  Seas,  — 
But  what  is  she,  whose  streaming  bars 

Roll  out  before  the  breeze  ? 

"  Ah,  well  her  iron  ribs  are  knit, 
Whose  thunders  strive  to  quell 
The  bellowing  throats,  the  blazing  lips, 

That  pealed  the  Armada's  knell ! 
The  mist  was  cleared,  —  a  wreath  o 

stars 

Rose  o'er  the  crimsoned  swell, 
And,  wavering  from  its  haughty  peak, 
The  cross  of  England  fell ! 

"  0  trembling  Faith !  though  dark  the 
morn, 

A  heavenly  torch  is  thine  ; 
While  feebler  races  melt  away, 

And  paler  orbs  decline, 
Still  shall  the  fiery  pillar's  ray, 

Along  thy  pathway  shine, 
To  light  the  chosen  tribe  that  sought 

This  Western  Palestine  ! 


I  see  the  living  tide  roll  on  } 

It  crowns  with  flaming  towers 
'he  icy  capes  of  Labrador, 

The  Spaniard's  '  land  of  flowers '  ! 
t  streams  beyond  the  splintered  ridge 

That  parts  the  Northern  showers  ; 
Tom  eastern  rock  to  sunset  wave 

The  Continent  is  ours  ! " 

He  ceased, — the  grim  old  soldier-saint,  — 

Then  softly  bent  to  cheer 
The  pilgrim-child,  whose  wasting  face 

Was  meekly  turned  to  hear  ; 
And  drew  his  toil-worn  sleeve  across, 

To  brush  the  manly  tear 
From  cheeks  that  never  changed  in  woe, 

And  never  blanched  in  fear. 

The  weary  pilgrim  slumbers, 

His  resting-place  unknown ; 
His  hands  were  crossed,  his  lids  were 
closed, 

The  dust  was  o'er  him  strown  ; 
The  drifting  soil,  the  mouldering  leaf, 

Along  the  sod  were  blown  ; 
His  mound  has  melted  into  earth, 

His  memory  lives  alone. 

So  let  it  live  unfading, 

The  memory  of  the  dead, 
Long  as  the  pale  anemone 

Springs  where  their  tears  were  shed, 
Or,  raining  in  the  summer's  wind 

In  flakes  of  burning  red, 
The  wild  rose  sprinkles  with  its  leaves 

The  turf  where  once  they  bled ! 

Yea,  when  the  frowning  bulwarks 

That  guard  this  holy  strand 
Have  sunk  beneath  the  trampling  surge 

In  beds  of  sparkling  sand, 
While  in  the  waste  of  ocean 

One  hoary  rock  shall  stand, 
Be  this  its  latest  legend,  — 

HERE  WAS  THE  PILGRIM'S  LAND  ! 


THE   STEAMBOAT.  —  LEXINGTON. 


29 


THE  STEAMBOAT. 

SEE  how  you  flaming  herald  treads 

The  ridged  and  rolling  waves, 
As,  crashing  o'er  their  crested  heads, 

She  bows  her  surly  slaves  ! 
With  foam  before  and  fire  behind, 

She  rends  the  clinging  sea, 
That  flies  before  the  roaring  wind, 

Beneath  her  hissing  lee. 

The  morning  spray,  like  sea-born  flow- 
ers, 

With  heaped  and  glistening  bells, 
Falls  round  her  fast,  in  ringing  show- 
ers, 

With  every  wave  that  swells  ; 
And,  burning  o'er  the  midnight  deep, 

In  lurid  fringes  thrown, 
The  living  gems  of  ocean  sweep 

Along  her  flashing  zone. 

With  clashing  wheel,  and  lifting  keel, 

And  smoking  torch  on  high, 
When  winds  are  loud,  and  billows  reel, 

She  thunders  foaming  by  ; 
When  seas  are  silent  and  serene, 

With  even  beam  she  glides, 
The  sunshine  glimmering  through  the 
green 

That  skirts  her  gleaming  sides. 

Now,  like  a  wild  nymph,  far  apart 

She  veils  her  shadowy  form, 
The  beating  of  her  restless  heart 

Still  sounding  through  the  storm ; 
Now  answers,  like  a  courtly  dame, 

The  reddening  surges  o'er, 
With  flying  scarf  of  spangled  flame, 

The  Pharos  of  the  shore. 

To-night  yon  pilot  shall  not  sleep, 
Who  trims  his  narrowed  sail ; 

To-night  yon  frigate  scarce  shall  keep 
Her  broad  breast  to  the  gale  ; 


And    many    a    foresail,     scooped    and 
strained, 

Shall  break  from  yard  and  stay, 
Before  this  smoky  wreath  has  stained 

The  rising  mist  of  day. 

Hark  !    hark  !    I    hear  you  whistling 
shroud, 

I  see  yon  quivering  mast ; 
The  black  throat  of  the  hunted  cloud 

Is  panting  forth  the  blast  ! 
An  hour,  and,  whirled  like  winnowing 
chaff, 

The  giant  surge  shall  fling 
His  tresses  o'er  yon  pennon  staff, 

White  as  the  sea-bird's  wing ! 

Yet  rest,  ye  wanderers  of  the  deep  ; 

Nor  wind  nor  wave  shall  tire 
Those  fleshless  arms,  whose  pukes  leap 

With  floods  of  living  fire  ; 
Sleep  on,  —  and,    when    the  morning 
light 

Streams  o'er  the  shining  bay, 
0  think  of  those  for  whom  the  night 

Shall  never  wake  in  day  ! 


LEXINGTON. 

SLOWLY  the  mist  o'er  the  meadow  was 

creeping, 
Bright  on  the  dewy  buds  glistened 

the  sun, 

When  from  his  couch,  while  his  chil- 
dren were  sleeping, 
Rose  the  bold  rebel  and  shouldered 

his  gun. 

Waving  her  golden  veil 
Over  the  silent  dale, 
Blithe  looked  the  morning  on  cottage 

and  spire  ; 

Hushed  was  his  parting  sigh, 
While  from  his  noble  eye 
Flashed  the  last  sparkle  of  liberty's  fire. 


30 


ADDITIONAL  POEMS. 


On  the  smooth  green  where  the  fres 

leaf  is  springing 
Calmly  the  first-born  of  glory  hav 

met ; 
Hark  !  the  death-volley  around  them  i 

ringing  ! 
Look  !    with     their     life-blood    th 

young  grass  is  wet ! 
Faint  is  the  feeble  breath, 
Murmuring  low  in  death, 
"Tell  to  our  sons  how  their  fathers 

have  died  "  ; 
Nerveless  the  iron  hand, 
Eaised  for  its  native  land, 
Lies  by  the  weapon  that  gleams  at  its 
side. 

Over  the    hillsides  the  wild  knell  is 

tolling, 
From  their  far  hamlets  the  yeomanry 

come; 
As  through  the  storm-clouds  the  thun 

der-burst  rolling, 
Circles  the  beat    of  the    mustering 

drum. 

Fast  on  the  soldier's  path 

Darken  the  waves  of  wrath, 

Long  have  they  gathered  and  loud  shall 

they  fall ; 

Red  glares  the  musket's  flash, 
Sharp  rings  the  rifle's  crash, 
Blazing  and  clanging  from  thicket  and 
wall 

Gayly  the  plume  of  the  horseman  was 

dancing, 

Never  to  shadow  his  cold  brow  again  ; 
Proudly  at  morning  the  war-steed  was 

prancing, 
Reeking  and  panting  he  droops  on  the 

rein  ; 

Pale  is  the  lip  of  scorn, 
Voiceless  the  trumpet  horn, 
Torn  is  the  silken-fringed  red  cross  on 
high; 


Many  a  belted  breast 
Low  on  the  turf  shall  rest, 
Ere  the  dark  hunters  the    herd  have 
passed  by. 

Snow-girdled   crags  where  the    hoarse 

wind  is  raving, 
Rocks  where  the  weary  floods  murmur 

and  wail, 
Wilds  where  the  fern  by  the  furrow  is 

waving, 
Reeled  with  the  echoes  that  rode  on 

the  gale ; 

Far  as  the  tempest  thrills 
Over  the  darkened  hills, 
Far  as  the  sunshine  streams  over  the 

plain, 

Roused  by  the  tyrant  band, 
Woke  all  the  mighty  land, 
Girded   for  battle,    from  mountain   to 
main. 

reen  be  the  graves  where  her  martyrs 

are  lying  ! 
Shroudless  and  tombless  they  sunk  to 

their  rest,  — 
While  o'er  their  ashes  the  starry  fold 

flying 
Wraps  the  proud  eagle  they  roused 

from  his  nest. 

Borne  on  her  Northern  pine, 
Long  o'er  the  foaming  brine 
>pread  her  broad  banner  to  storm  and 

to  sun  ; 

Heaven  keep  her  ever  free, 
Wide  as  o'er  land  and  sea 
Bloats  the  fair  emblem  her  heroes  have 
won  ! 


ON  LENDING  A  PUNCH-BOWL. 

'HIS  ancient  silver  bowl  of  mine,   it 

tells  of  good  old  times, 
)f  joyous  days,  and  jolly  nights,  and 

merry  Christmas  chimes ; 


ON   LENDING   A.  PUNCH-BOWL. 


31 


They  were  a  free  and  jovial  race,  but 

honest,  brave,  and  true, 
That  dipped  their  ladle  in  the  punch 

when  this  old  bowl  was  new. 

A  Spanish  galleon  brought  the  bar  ;  so 

runs  the  ancient  tale  ; 
T  was  hammered  by  an  Antwerp  smith, 

whose  arm  was  like  a  flail ; 
And  now  and  then  between  the  strokes, 

for  fear  his  strength  should  fail, 
He  wiped  his  brow,  and  quaffed  a  cup 

of  good  old  Flemish  ale. 

T  was  purchased  by  an  English  squire 

to  please  his  loving  dame, 
Who  saw  the  cherubs,  and  conceived  a 

longing  for  the  same  ; 
And  oft  as  on  the  ancient  stock  another 

twig  was  found, 
^T  was  filled  with  caudle  spiced  and  hot, 

and  handed  smoking  round. 

But,    changing    hands,    it  reached  at 

length  a  Puritan  divine, 
Who  used  to  follow  Timothy,  and  take 

a  little  wine, 
But  hated  punch  and  prelacy  ;  and  so  it 

was,  perhaps, 
He  went  to   Leyden,  where  he  found 

conventicles  and  schnaps. 

And  then,  of  course,  you  know  what 's 

next, — it  left  the  Dutchman's  shore 
With  those  that  in  the  Mayflower  came, 

—  a  hundred  souls  and  more,  — 
Along  with  all  the  furniture,  to  fill  their 

new  abodes,  — 
To  judge  by  what  is  still  on  hand,  at 

least  a  hundred  loads. 

T  was  on   a  dreary  winter's  eve,  the 

night  was  closing  dim, 
When  brave  Miles  Standish  took  the 

bowl,  and  filled  it  to  the  brim  ; 


The  little  Captain  stood  and  stirred  the 

posset  with  his  sword, 
And  all  his  sturdy  men-at-arms  were 

ranged  about  the  board. 

He  poured  the  fiery  Hollands  in,  —the 

man  that  never  feared,  — 
He  took  a  long  and  solemn  draught,  and 

wiped  his  yellow  beard  ; 
And  one  by  one  the  musketeers  —  the 

men  that  fought  and  prayed  — 
All  drank  as  't   were    their   mother's 

milk,  and  not  a  man  afraid. 

That  night,  affrighted  from  his  nest,  the 

screaming  eagle  flew, 
He  heard  the  Pequot's  ringing  whoop, 

the  soldier's  wild  halloo  ; 
And  there  the  sachem  learned  the  rule 

he  taught  to  kith  and  kin, 
"  Run  from  the  white  man  when  you 

find  he  smells  of  Hollands  gin  !  " 

A  hundred  years,  and  fifty  more,  had 

spread  their  leaves  and  snows, 
A  thousand  rubs  had  flattened  down 

each  little  cherub's  nose, 
When  once  again  the  bowl  was  filled. 

but  not  in  mirth  or  joy, 
'T  was  mingled  by  a  mother's  hand  to 

cheer  her  parting  boy. 

Drink,  John,  she  said,  'twill  do  you 

good,  —  poor  child,    you  '11  never 

bear 
This  working  in  the  dismal  trench,  out 

in  the  midnight  air  ; 
And  if  —  God  bless  me! — you    were 

hurt,  't  would  keep  away  the  chill ; 
So    John    did    drink,  —and    well    he 

wrought  that  night  at  Bunker's  Hill ! 

I  tell  you,  there  was  generous  warmth 
in  good  old  English  cheer  ; 

I  tell  you,  't  was  a  pleasant  thought  te 
bring  ite  symbol  here  ; 


32 


ADDITIONAL   POEMS. 


'T  is  but  the  fool  that  loves  excess ; 

hast  thou  a  drunken  soul? 
Thy  bane  is  in  thy  shallow  skull,  not  in 

my  silver  bowl  ! 

I  love  the  memory  of  the   past,  —  its 

pressed  yet  fragrant  flowers,  — 
The  moss  that  clothes  its  broken  walls, 

—  the  ivy  on  its  towers  ;  — 
Nay,  this  poor  bawble  it  bequeathed,  — 

my  eyes  grow  moist  and  dim, 
To  think  of  all  the  vanished  joys  that 

danced  around  its  brim. 

Then  fill  a  fair  and  honest  cup,  and  bear 

it  straight  to  me  ; 
The  goblet  hallows  all  it  holds,  whate'er 

the  liquid  be ; 
And  may  the  cherubs  on  its  face  protect 

me  from  the  sin, 
That  dooms  one  to  those  dreadful  words, 

— ' '  My  dear,  where  have  you  been  ? " 


A  SONG 

FOR  THE  CENTENNIAL  CELEBRATION  OF 
HARVARD   COLLEGE,    1836. 

WHEN  the  Puritans  came  over, 

Our  hills  and  swamps  to  clear, 
The  woods  were  full  of  catamounts, 

And  Indians  red  as  deer, 
With  tomahawks  and  scalping-knives, 

That  make  folks'  heads  look  queer; — 
0  the  ship  from  England  used  to  bring 

A  hundred  wigs  a  year  ! 

The  crows  came  cawing  through  the  air 

To  pluck  the  pilgrims'  corn, 
The  bears  came  snuffing  round  the  door 

Whene'er  a  babe  was  born, 
The  rattlesnakes  were  bigger  round 

Than  the  but  of  the  old  ram's  horn 
The  deacon  blew  at  meeting  time 

On  every  "Sabbath"  morn. 


But  soon  they  knocked  the  wigwams 
down, 

And  pine-tree  trunk  and  limb 
Began  to  sprout  among  the  leaves 

In  shape  of  steeples  slim  ; 
And  out  the  little  wharves  were  stretched 

Along  the  ocean's  rim, 
And  up  the  little  school-house  shot 

To  keep  the  boys  in  trim. 

And,  when  at  length  the  College  rose, 

The  sachem  cocked  his  eye 
At  every  tutor's  meagre  ribs 

Whose  coat-tails  whistled  by  : 
But  when  the  Greek  and  Hebrew  wordi 

Came  tumbling  from  their  jaws, 
The  copper-colored  children  all 

Ran  screaming  to  the  squawa. 

And  who  was  on  the  Catalogue 

When  college  was  begun  ? 
Two  nephews  of  the  President, 

And  the  Professor's  son  ; 
(They  turned  a  little  Indian  by, 

As  brown  as  any  bun  ;) 
Lord  !  how  the  seniors  knocked  about 

The  freshman  class  of  one  ! 

They  had  not  then  the  dainty  things 

That  commons  now  afford, 
But  succotash  and  homony 

Were  smoking  on  the  board  ; 
They  did  not  rattle  round  in  gigs, 

Or  dash  in  long-tail  blues, 
But  always  on  Commencement  days 

The  tutors  blacked  their  shoes. 

God  bless  the  ancient  Puritans  ! 

Their  lot  was  hard  enough  ; 
But  honest  hearts  make  iron  arms, 

And  tender  maids  are  tough  ; 
So  love  and  faith  have  formed  and  fed 

Our  true-born  Yankee  stuff, 
And  keep  the  kernel  in  the  shell 

The  British  found  so  rough  ! 


THE  ISLAND   HUNTING-SONG.  —  THE  ONLY  DAUGHTER.        33 


THE  ISLAND  HUNTING-SONG. 

No  more  the  summer  floweret  charms, 

The  leaves  will  soon  be  sere, 
And  Autumn  folds  his  jewelled  arms 

Around  the  dying  year  ; 
So,  ere  the  waning  seasons  claim 

Our  leafless  groves  awhile, 
With  golden  wine  and  glowing  flame 

We  '11  crown  our  lonely  isle. 

Once  more  the  merry  voices  sound 

Within  the  antlered  hall, 
And  long  and  loud  the  baying  liounds 

Return  the  hunter's  call  ; 
And  through  the  woods,  and  o'er  the  hill, 

And  far  along  the  bay, 
The  driver's  horn  is  sounding  shrill,  — 

Up,  sportsmen,  and  away  ! 

No  bars  of  steel,  or  walls  of  stone, 

Our  little  empire  bound, 
But,  circling  with  his  azure  zone, 

The  sea  runs  foaming  round  ; 
The  whitening  wave,  the  purpled  skies, 

The  blue  and  lifted  shore, 
Braid  with  their  dim  and  blending  dyes 

Our  wide  horizon  o'er. 

And  who  will  leave  the  grave  debate 

That  shakes  the  smoky  town, 
To  rule  amid  our  island-state, 

And  wear  our  oak -leaf  crown  ? 
And  who  will  be  awhile  content 

To  hunt  our  woodland  game, 
And  leave  the  vulgar  pack  that  scent 

The  reeking  track  of  fame  ? 

Ah,  who  that  shares  in  toils  like  these 

Will  sigh  not  to  prolong 
Our  days  beneath  the  broad-leaved  trees, 

Our  nights  of  mirth  and  song  ? 
Then  leave  the  dust  of  noisy  streets, 

Ye  outlaws  of  the  wood, 
And  follow  through  his  green  retreats 

Your  noble  Robin  Hood. 


DEPARTED  DAYS. 

YES,  dear  departed,  cherished  days, 

Could  Memory's  hand  restore 
Your  morning  light,  your  evening  rays 

From  Time's  gray  urn  once  more,  — 
Then  might  this  restless  heart  be  still, 

This  straining  eye  might  close, 
And  Hope  her  fainting  pinions  fold, 

While  the  fair  phantoms  rose. 

But,  like  a  child  in  ocean's  arms, 

We  strive  against  the  stream, 
Each  moment  farther  from  the  shore 

Where  life's  young  fountains  gleam  ; — 
Each  moment  fainter  wave  the  fields, 

And  wider  rolls  the  sea  ; 
The  mist  grows  dark,  —  the  sun  goes 
down,  — 

Day  breaks,  —  and  where  are  we  ? 


THE  ONLY  DAUGHTER. 

ILLUSTRATION  OF  A  PICTURE. 

THEY  bid  me  strike  the  idle  strings, 

As  if  my  summer  days 
Had  shaken  sunbeams  from  their  wings 

To  warm  my  autumn  lays  ; 
They  bring  to  me  their  painted  urn, 

As  if  it  were  not  time 
To  lift  my  gauntlet  and  to  spurn 

The  lists  of  boyish  rhyme  ; 
And,  were  it  not  that  I  have  still 

Some  weakness  in  my  heart 
That  clings  around  my  stronger  will 

And  pleads  for  gentler  art, 
Perchance  I  had  not  turned  away 

The  thoughts  grown  tame  with  toil, 
To  cheat  this  lone  and  pallid  ray, 

That  wastes  the  midnight  oil. 

Alas  !  with  every  year  I  feel 

Some  roses  leave  my  brow  ; 
Too  young  for  wisdom's  tardy  seal, 

Too  old  for  garlands  now  ; 


34 


ADDITIONAL  POEMS. 


Yet,  while  the  dewy  breath  of  spring 

Steals  o'er  the  tingling  air, 
And  spreads  and  fans  each  emerald  wing 

The  forest  soon  shall  wear, 
How  bright  the  opening  year  would  seem, 

Had  I  one  look  like  thine, 
To  meet  me  when  the  morning  beam 

Unseals  these  lids  of  mine  ! 
Too  long  I  bear  this  lonely  lot, 

That  bids  my  heart  run  wild 
To  press  the  lips  that  love  me  not, 

To  clasp  the  stranger's  child. 

How  oft  beyond  the  dashing  seas, 

Amidst  those  royal  bowers, 
Where  danced  the  lilacs  in  the  breeze, 

And  swung  the  chestnut- flowers, 
I  wandered  like  a  wearied  slave 

Whose  morning  task  is  done, 
To  watch  the  little  hands  that  gave 

Their  whiteness  to  the  sun  ; 
To  revel  in  the  bright  young  eyes, 

Whose  lustre  sparkled  through 
The  sable  fringe  of  Southern  skies 

Or  gleamed  in  Saxon  blue  ! 
How  oft  I  heard  another's  name 

Called  in  some  truant's  tone  ; 
Sweet  accents  !  which  I  longed  to  claim, 

To  learn  and  lisp  my  own  ! 

Too  soon  the  gentle  hands,  that  pressed 

The  ringlets  of  the  child, 
Are  folded  on  the  faithful  breast 

Where  first  he  breathed  and  smiled  ; 
Too  oft  the  clinging  arms  untwine, 

The  melting  lips  forget, 
And  darkness  veils  the  bridal  shrine 

Where  wreaths  and  torches  met ; 
If  Heaven  but  leaves  a  single  thread 

Of  Hope's  dissolving  chain, 
Even  when  her  parting  plumes  are  spread, 

It  bids  them  fold  again  ; 
The  cradle  rocks  beside  the  tomb  ; 

The  cheek  now  changed  and  chill 


Smiles  on  us  in  the  morning  bloom 
Of  one  that  loves  us  still. 

Sweet  image  !  I  have  done  thee  wrong 

To  claim  this  destined  lay  ; 
The  leaf  that  asked  an  idle  song 

Must  bear  my  tears  away. 
Yet,  in  thy  memory  shouldst  thou  keep 

This  else  forgotten  strain, 
Till  years  have  taught  thine  eyes  to  weep, 

And  flattery's  voice  is  vain  ; 
0  then,  thou  fledgling  of  the  nest, 

Like  the  long- wandering  dove, 
Thy  weary  heart  may  faint  for  rest, 

As  mine,  on  changeless  love  ; 
And  while  these  sculptured  lines  retrace 

The  hours  now  dancing  by, 
This  vision  of  thy  girlish  grace 

May  cost  thee,  too,  a  sigh. 


SONG 

WRITTEN  FOR  THE  DINNER  GIVEN  TO 
CHARLES  DICKENS,  BY  THE  YOUNG 
MEN  OF  BOSTON,  FEB.  1,  1842. 

THE  stars  their  early  vigils  keep, 

The  silent  hours  are  near, 
When  drooping  eyes  forget  to  weep,  — 

Yet  still  we  linger  here  ; 
And  what — the  passing  churl  may  ask — 

Can  claim  such  wondrous  power, 
That  Toil  forgets  his  wonted  task, 

And  Love  his  promised  hour  ? 

The  Irish  harp  no  longer  thrills, 

Or  breathes  a  fainter  tone  ; 
The  clarion  blast  from  Scotland's  hills, 

Alas  !  no  more  is  blown  ; 
And  Passion's  burning  lip  bewails 

Her  Harold's  wasted  fire, 
Still  lingering  o'er  the  dust  that  veils 

The  Lord  of  England's  lyre. 

But  grieve  not  o'er  its  broken  strings, 
Nor  think  its  soul  hath  died, 


LINES. 


35 


While  yet  the  lark  at  heaven's  gate  sings, 
As  once  o'er  Avon's  side  ;  — 

While  gentle  summer  sheds  her  bloom, 
And  dewy  blossoms  wave, 

Alike  o'er  Juliet's  storied  tomb 
And  Nelly's  nameless  grave. 

Thou  glorious  island  of  the  sea  ! 

Thoiigh  wide  the  wasting  flood 
That  parts  our  distant  land  from  thee, 

We  claim  thy  generous  blood  ; 
Nor  o'er  thy  far  horizon  springs 

One  hallowed  star  of  fame, 
But  kindles,  like  an  angel's  wings, 

Our  western  skies  in  flame  ! 


LINES 

RECITED  AT  THE  BERKSHIRE  FESTIVAL. 

COME  back  to  your  mother,  ye  children, 

for  shame, 
Who  have  wandered  like  truants,   for 

riches  or  fame  ! 
With  a  smile  on  her  face,  and  a  sprig  in 

her  cap, 
She  calls  you  to  feast  from  her  bountiful 

lap. 

Come  out  from  your  alleys,  your  courts, 

and  your  lanes, 
And  breathe,  like  young  eagles,  the  air 

of  our  plains ; 
Take  a  whiff  from  our  fields,  and  your 

excellent  wives 
Will  declare  it  's  all  nonsense  insuring 

your  lives. 

Come  you  of  the  law,  who  can  talk,  if 

you  please, 
Till  the  man  in  the  moon  will  allow  it 's 

a  cheese, 
And  leave  "  the  old  lady,  that  never  tells 

lies," 
To  sleep  with  her  handkerchief  over  her 

eyes. 


Ye  healers  of  men,  for  a  moment  decline 
Your  feats  in  the  rhubarb  and  ipecac 

line  ; 
While  you  shut  up  your  turnpike,  your 

neighbors  can  go, 
The  old  roundabout  road,  to  the  regions 

below. 

You  clerk,  on  whose  ears  are  a  couple  of 

pens, 
And  whose  head  is  an  ant-hill  of  units 

and  tens  ; 
Though  Plato  denies  you,  we  welcome 

you  still 
As  a  featherless  biped,  in  spite  of  your 

quill. 

Poor  drudge  of  the  city !  how  happy  he 

feels, 
With  the  burs  on  his  legs,  and  the  grass 

at  his  heels ! 
No  dodger  behind,    his  bandannas  to 

share, 
No  constable  grumbling,  "You  must  n't 

walk  there ! " 

In  yonder  green  meadow,  to  memory 
dear, 

He  slaps  a  mosquito  and  brushes  a  tear ; 

The  dew-drops  hang  round  him  on  blos- 
soms and  shoots, 

He  breathes  but  one  sigh  for  his  youth 
and  his  boots. 

There  stands  the  old  school-house,  hard 

by  the  old  church  ; 
That  tree  at  its  side  had  the  flavor  of 

birch  ; 
0  sweet  were  the  days  of  his  juvenile 

tricks, 
Though  the  prairie  of  youth  had  so  many 

"big  licks." 

By  the  side  of  yon  river  he  weeps  and 

he  slumps, 
The  boots  fill  with  water,  as  if  they  were 

pumps, 


ADDITIONAL  POEMS. 


Till,  sated  with  rapture,  he  steals  to  his 

bed, 
With  a  glow  in  his  heart  and  a  cold  in 

his  head. 

'T  is  past,  —  he  is  dreaming,  —  I  see  him 

again  ; 

The  ledger  returns  as  by  legerdemain  ; 
His  neckcloth  is  damp  with  an  easterly 

tlaw, 
And  he  holds  in  his  fingers  an  omnibus 

straw. 

He  dreams  the  chill  gust  is  a  blossomy 

gale, 
That  the  straw  is  a  rose  from  his  dear 

native  vale ; 
And  murmurs,  unconscious  of  space  and 

of  time, 
"A  1.      Extra  super.      Ah,   isn't  it 

PRIME  ! " 

0  what  are  the  prizes  we  perish  to  win 
To  the  first  little  "shiner"  we  caught 

with  a  pin  ! 

No  soil  upon  earth  is  so  dear  to  our  eyes 
As  the  soil  we  first  stirred  in  terrestrial 

pies  ! 

Then  come  from  all  parties,  and  parts, 
to  our  feast ; 

Though  not  at  the  "  Astor,"  we  '11  give 
you  at  least 

A  bite  at  an  apple,  a  seat  on  the  grass, 

And  the  best  of  old  —  water  —  at  noth- 
ing a  glass. 

NUX  POSTCtENATICA. 

1  WAS  sitting  with  my  microscope,  upon 

my  parlor  rug, 
With  a  very  heavy  quarto  and  a  very 

lively  bug ; 
The  true  bug  had  been  organized  with 

only  two  antennae, 
But  the  humbug  in  the  copperplate  would 

have  them  twice  as  many. 


And  I  thought,  like  Dr.  Faustus,  of  the 

emptiness  of  art, 
How  we  take  a  fragment  for  the  whole, 

and  call  the  whole  a  part, 
When  I  heard  a  heavy  footstep  that  was 

loud  enough  for  two, 
And  a  man  of  forty  entered,  exclaiming, 

—  "How  d'ye  do  ?" 

He  was  not  a  ghost,  my  visitor,  but  solid 

flesh  and  bone  ; 
He  wore  a  Palo  Alto  hat,  his  weight  was 

twenty  stone  ; 
(It 's  odd  how  hats  expand  their  brims 

as  riper  years  invade, 
As  if  when  life  had  reached  its  noon,  it 

wanted  them  for  shade  !) 

I  lost  my  focus,  —  dropped  my  book,  -— 
the  bug,  who  was  a  flea, 

At  once  exploded,  and  commenced  ex- 
periments on  me. 

They  have  a  certain  heartiness  that  fre- 
quently appalls,  — 

Those  mediaeval  gentlemen  in  semilunar 
smalls  ! 

"  My  boy,"  he  said,  — (colloquial  ways, 

—  the  vast,  broad-hatted  man,)  — 
"  Come  dine  with  us  on  Thursday  next, 

— you  must,  you  know  you  can  ; 
We  're  going  to  have  a  roaring  time,  with 

lots  of  fun  and  noise, 
Distinguished    guests,    et    cetera,    the 

JUDGE,  and  all  the  boys." 

Not  so,  —  I  said,  —  my  temporal  bones 

are  showing  pretty  clear. 
It's  time  to  stop, — just  look  and  see 

that  hair  above  this  ear  ; 
My  golden  days  are  more  than  spent,  — 

—  and,  what  is  very  strange, 

If  these  are  real  silver  hairs,  I  'm  getting 
lots  of  change. 

Besides  —  my  prospects  —  don't  you 
know  that  people  won't  employ 


NUX  POSTCCENATICA. 


37 


A.  man  that  wrongs  his  manliness  by 
laughing  like  a  boy  ? 

And  suspect  the  azure  blossom  that  un- 
folds upon  a  shoot, 

As  if  wisdom's  old  potato  could  not 
flourish  at  its  root  ? 

It 's  a  very  fine  reflection,  when  you  're 

etching  out  a  smile 
On  a  copperplate  of  faces  that  would 

stretch  at  least  a  mile, 
That,  what  with  sneers  from  enemies, 

and  cheapening  shrugs  of  friends, 
It  will  cost  you  all  the  earnings  that  a 

month  of  labor  lends  ! 

It 's  a  vastly  pleasing  prospect,   when 

you  're  screwing  out  a  laugh, 
That  your  very  next  year's  income  is 

diminished  by  a  half, 
And  a  little   boy  trips  barefoot  that 

Pegasus  may  go, 
And  the   baby's  milk  is  watered  that 

your  Helicon  may  flow  ! 

No  ;  —  the  joke  has  been  a  good  one,  — 

but  I  'm  getting  fond  of  quiet, 
And  I  don't  like  deviations  from  my 

customary  diet ; 
So  I  think  I  will  not  go  with  you  to 

hear  the  toasts  and  speeches, 
But  stick  to  old  Montgomery  Place,  and 

have  some  pig  and  peaches. 

The  fat  man   answered  :  —  Shut  your 

mouth,  and  hear  the  genuine  creed ; 
The  true  essentials  of  a  feast  are  only 

fun  and  feed  ; 
The  force  that  wheels  the  planets  round 

delights  in  spinning  tops, 
And  that  young  earthquake  t'  other  day 

was  great  at  shaking  props. 

I  tell  you  what,  philosopher,  if  all  the 
longest  heads 


That  ever  knocked  their  sinciputs  in 

stretching  on  their  beds 
Were  round  one  great  mahogany,  I  'd 

beat  those  fine  old  folks 
With  twenty  dishes,  twenty  fools,  and 

twenty  clever  jokes  ! 

Why,  if  Columbus  should  be  there,  the 

company  would  beg 
He  'd  show  that  little  trick  of  his  of 

balancing  the  egg ! 
Milton  to  Stilton  would  give  in,  and 

Solomon  to  Salmon, 
And  Roger  Bacon  be  a  bore,  and  Francis 

Bacon  gammon  ! 

And  as  for  all  the  "patronage"  of  all 

the  clowns  and  boors 
That  squint  their  little  narrow  eyes  at 

any  freak  of  yours, 
Do  leave  them  to  your  prosier  friends, 

—  such  fellows  ought  to  die 
When  rhubarb  is   so  very  scarce  and 

ipecac  so  high ! 

And  so  I  come,  —  like  Lochinvar,  to 
tread  a  single  measure, 

To  purchase  with  a  loaf  of  bread  a  sugar- 
plum of  pleasure, 

To  enter  for  the  cup  of  glass  that 's  run 
for  after  dinner, 

Which  yields  a  single  sparkling  draught, 
then  breaks  and  cuts  the  winner. 

Ah,  that 's  the  way  delusion  comes,  — 
a  glass  of  old  Madeira, 

A  pair  of  visual  diaphragms  revolved  by 
Jane  or  Sarah, 

And  down  go  vows  and  promises  with- 
out the  slightest  question 

If  eating  words  won't  compromise  the 
organs  of  digestion  ! 

And  yet,  among  my  native  shades,  be- 
side my  nursing  mother, 


38 


ADDITIONAL  POEMS. 


Whera  every  stranger  seems  a  friend, 
and  every  friend  a  brother, 

I  feel  the  old  convivial  glow  (unaided) 
o'er  me  stealing,  — 

The  warm,  champagny,  old-particular, 
brandy-punchy  feeling. 

We're  all  alike  ;  —  Vesuvius  flings  the 

scoria  from  his  fountain, 
But  down  they  come  in  volleying  rain 

back  to  the  burning  mountain  ; 
We  leave,  like  those  volcanic  stones,  our 

precious  Alma  Mater, 
But  will  keep  dropping  in  again  to  see 

the  dear  old  crater. 

VERSES  FOR  AFTER-DINNER. 
*  B  K   SOCIETY,    1844. 

I  WAS  thinking  last  night,  as  I  sat  in 
the  cars, 

With  the  charmingest  prospect  of  cin- 
ders and  stars, 

Next  Thursday  is  —  bless  me  !  —  how 
hard  it  will  be, 

If  that  cannibal  president  calls  upon  me ! 

There  is  nothing  on  earth  that  he  will 

not  devour, 
From  a  tutor  in  seed  to  a  freshman  in 

flower ; 
No  sage  is  too  gray,  and  no  youth  is  too 

green, 
And  you  can't  be  too  plump,  though  you 

're  never  too  lean. 

While  others  enlarge  on  the  boiled  and 

the  roast, 
He  serves  a  raw  clergyman  up  with  a 

toast, 
Or  catches  some  doctor,  quite  tender  and 

young, 
And  basely  insists  on  a  bit  of  his  tongue. 

Poor  victim,  prepared  for  his  classical 
spit, 


With  a  stuffing  of  praise,  and  a  basting 
of  wit, 

You  may  twitch  at  your  collar,  and  wrin- 
kle your  brow, 

But  you  're  up  on  your  legs,  and  you  're 
in  for  it  now. 


0  think  of  your  friends, —  they  are  wait- 
ing to  hear 

Those  jokes  that  are  thought  so  remark- 
ably queer ; 

And  all  the  Jack  Homers  of  metrical 
buns 

Are  prying  and  fingering  to  pick  out  the 
puns. 

Those  thoughts   which,  like  chickens, 

will  always  thrive  best 
When  reared  by  the  heat  of  the  natural 

nest, 
Will  perish  if  hatched  from  their  embryo 

dream 
In  the  mist  and  the  glow  of  convivial 

steam. 

0  pardon  me,  then,  if  I  meekly  retire, 
With  a  very  small  flash  of  ethereal  fire  ; 
No  rubbing  will  kindle   your  Lucifer 

match, 

If  thejfe  does  not  follow  the  primitive 
scratch. 

Dear  friends,  who  are  listening  so  sweetly 

the  while, 
With  your  lips  double-reefed  in  a  snug 

little  smile,  — 

1  leave  you  two  fables,  both  drawn  from 

the  deep,  — 
The  shells  you  can  drop,  but  the  pearls 

you  may  keep. 

*  »  * 

The  fish  called  the  FLOUNDER,  perhaps 

you  may  know, 
Has  one  side  for  use  and  another  foi 

show  ; 


A   MODEST   EEQUEST. 


39 


One  side  for  the  public,  a  delicate  brown, 
And  one  that  is  white,  which  he  always 
keeps  down. 

A  very  young  flounder,  the  flattest  of 

flats, 
(And  they  're  none  of  them  thicker  than 

opera  hats,) 
Was  speaking  more  freely  than  charity 

taught 
Of  a  friend  and  relation  that  just  had 

been  caught. 

"  My  !  what  an  exposure  !  just  see  what 

a  sight  ! 
I  blush  for  my  race,  —  he  is  showing  his 

white  ! 
Such   spinning   and  wriggling,  — why, 

what  does  he  wish  ? 
How  painfully  small  to  respectable  fish !" 

Then  said  an  old  SCULPIN,  —  "  My  free- 
dom excuse, 

But  you  're  play  ing  the  cobbler  with  holes 
in  your  shoes  ; 

Your  brown  side  is  up,  —  but  just  wait 
till  you  're  tried 

And  you  '11  find  that  all  flounders  are 
white  on  one  side." 
*  *  * 

There 's  a  slice  near  the  PICKEREL'S  pec- 
toral fins, 

Where  the  thorax  leaves  off  and  the 
venter  begins  ; 

Which  his  brother,  survivor  of  fish-hooks 
and  lines, 

Though  fond  of  his  family,  never  declines. 

He  loves  his  relations  ;  he  feels  they  '11 
be  missed  ; 

But  that  one  little  titbit  he  cannot  re- 
sist ; 

So  your  bait  may  be  swallowed,  no  mat- 
ter how  fast, 

For  you  catch  your  next  fish  with  a  piece 
of  the  last. 


And  thus,  0  survivor,  whose  merciless 
fate 

Is  to  take  the  next  hook  with  the  presi- 
dent's bait, 

You  are  lost  while  you  snatch  from  the 
end  of  his  line 

The  morsel  he  rent  from  this  bosom  of 
mine  ! 


A  MODEST  REQUEST 

COMPLIED  WITH  AFTER  THE  DINNER  AT 
PRESIDENT  EVERETT'S  INAUGURATION. 

SCENE,  —  a  back  parlor  in  a  certain 
square, 

Or  court,  or  lane,  —  in  short,  no  matter 
where  ; 

Time,  —  early  morning,  dear  to  simple 
souls 

Who  love  its  sunshine,  and  its  fresh- 
baked  rolls  ; 

Persons,  —  take  pity  on  this  telltale 
blush, 

That,  like  the  .(Ethiop,  whispers,  "Hush, 
0  hush  !  " 

Delightful  scene  !  where  smiling  comfort 

broods, 

Nor  business  frets,  nor  anxious  care  in- 
trudes ; 

0  si  sic  omnia  1  were  it  ever  so  ! 
But  what  is  stable  in  this  world  below  ? 
Medioefonte,  — Virtue  has  her  faults, — 
The  clearest   fountains  taste  of  Epsom 

salts  ; 
We  snatch  the  cup  and  lift  to  drain  it 

dry,  — 

Its  central  dimple  holds  a  drowning  fly! 
Strong  is  the  pine  by  Maine's  ambrosial 

streams, 
But  stronger  augers  pierce  its  thickest 

beams  ; 
No  iron  gate,  no  spiked  and  panelled 

door, 


40 


ADDITIONAL   POEMS. 


Can  keep  out  death,  the  postman,  or  the 
bore  ;  — 

0  for  a  world  where  peace  and  silence 

reign, 

And  blunted  dulness  terebrates  in  vain ! 

—  The  door-bell  jingles,  —  enter  Rich- 
ard Fox, 

And  takes  this  letter  from  his  leathern 
box. 

"Dear  Sir, 

In  writing  on  a  former  day, 
One  little  matter  I  forgot  to  say  ; 

1  now  inform  you  in  a  single  line, 

On  Thursday  next  our  purpose  is  to  dine, 

The  act  of  feeding,  as  you  understand, 

Is  but  a  fraction  of  the  work  in  hand  ; 

Its  nobler  half  is  that  ethereal  meat 

The  papers  call  '  the  intellectual  treat ' ; 

Songs,  speeches,  toasts,  around  the  fes- 
tive board 

Drowned  in  the  juice  the  College  pumps 
afford  ; 

For  only  water  flanks  our  knives  and 
forks, 

So,  sink  or  float,  we  swim  without  the 
corks. 

Yours  is  the  art,  by  native  genius  taught, 

To  clothe  in  eloquence  the  naked  thought ; 

Yours  is  the  skill  its  music  to  prolong 

Through  the  sweet  effluence  of  melliflu- 
ous song  ; 

Yours  the  quaint  trick  to  cram  the  pithy 
line 

That  crack  s  so  crisply  over  bubbling  wine ; 

And  since  success  your  various  gifts  at- 
tends, 

We  —  that  is,  I  and  all  your  numerous 
friends  — 

Expect  from  you  —  your  single  self  a 
host  — 

A  speech,  a  song,  excuse  me,  and  a  toast ; 

Nay,  not  to  haggle  on  so  small  a  claim, 

A  few  of  each,  or  several  of  the  same. 
(Signed),       Yours,  most,  truly, " 


No  !  my  sight  must  fail,  — . 
If  that  ain't  Judas  on  the  largest  scale  ! 

Well,    this  is  modest; — nothing  else 

than  that  ? 
My  coat  ?    my  boots  ?     my  pantaloons  ? 

my  hat  ? 
My  stick  ?  my  gloves  ?  as  well  as  all 

my  wits, 
Learning  and  linen,  —  everything  that 

fits! 

Jack,  said  my  lady,  is  it  grog  you  '11  try, 
Or  punch,  or  toddy,  if  perhaps  you  're 

dry? 

Ah,  said  the  sailor,  though  I  can't  re- 
fuse, 
You  know,  my  lady,  't  ain't  for  me  to 

choose ;  — 

I  '11  take  the  grog  to  finish  off  my  lunch, 
And  drink  the  toddy  while  you  mix  the 
punch. 


THE  SPEECH.     (The  speaker,  rising  to 

be  seen, 

Looks  very  red,  because  so  very  green.) 
I  rise  —  I  rise  —  with  unaffected  fear, 
(Louder  !  —  speak    louder  !  —  who    the 

deuce  can  hear  ? ) 

I  rise  —  I  said  —  with  undisguised  dis- 
may— 

—  Such  are  my  feelings  as  I  rise,  I  say  ! 
Quite  unprepared  to  face  this  learned 

throng, 

Already  gorged  with  eloquence  and  song; 
Around  my  view  are  ranged  on  either 

hand 

The  genius,  wisdom,  virtue,  of  the  land  ; 
"  Hands  that  the  rod  of  empire  might 

have  swayed  " 

Close  at  my  elbow  stir  their  lemonade  ; 
Would  you  like  Homer  learn  to  write 

and  speak, 
That  bench  is  groaning  with  its  weight 

of  Greek ; 


A  MODEST  REQUEST. 


41 


Behold  the  naturalist  who  in  his  teens 
Found  six  new  species  in  a  dish  of  greens; 
And  lo,  the  master  in  a  statelier  walk, 
Whose  annual  ciphering  takes  a  ton  oi 

chalk  ; 
And  there  the  linguist,  who  by  common 

roots 
Thro'  all  their  nurseries  tracks  old  Noah's 

shoots,  — 
How  Shem's  proud  children  reared  the 

Assyrian  piles, 
While  Ham's  were  scattered  through  the 

Sandwich  Isles  ! 

—  Fired  at  the  thought  of  all  the  pres- 
ent shows, 

My  kindling  fancy  down  the  future 
flows  : 

I  see  the  glory  of  the  coming  days 

O'er  Time's  horizon  shoot  its  streaming 
rays  ; 

Near  and  more  near  the  radiant  morning 
draws 

In  living  lustre  (rapturous  applause)  ; 

From  east  to  west  the  blazing  heralds  run, 

Loosed  from  the  chariot  of  the  ascend- 
ing sun, 

Through  the  long  vista  of  uncounted 
years 

tn  cloudless  splendor  (three  tremendous 
cheers). 

My  eye  prophetic,  as  the  depths  unfold, 

Sees  a  new  advent  of  the  age  of  gold  ; 

While  o'er  the  scene  new  generations 
press, 

New  heroes  rise  the  coming  time  to 
bless,  — 

Not  such  as  Homer's,  who,  we  read  in 
Pope, 

Dined  without  forks  and  never  neard  of 
soap,  — 

Not  such  as  May  to  Marlborough  Chapel 
brings, 

Lean,  hungry,  savage,  anti-everythings, 


Copies  of  Luther  in  the  pasteboard 
style,  — 

But  genuine  articles,  —  the  true  Carlyle ; 

While  far  on  high  the  blazing  orb  shall 
shed 

Its  central  light  on  Harvard's  holy  head, 

And  Learning's  ensigns  ever  float  un- 
furled 

Here  in  the  focus  of  the  new-born  world  ! 

The  speaker  stops,  and,  trampling  down 

the  pause, 
Roars  through  the  hall  the  thunder  of 

applause, 

One  stormy  gust  of  long-suspended  Ahs  ! 
One  whirlwind  chaos  of  insane  hurrahs  ! 


THE  SONG.     But  this  demands  a  briefer 

line,  — 
A  shorter  muse,  and  not  the  old  long 

Nine  ;  — 

Long  metre  answers  for  a  common  song, 
Though  common  metre  does  not  answer 

long. 

She  came  beneath  the  forest  dome 

To  seek  its  peaceful  shade, 
An  exile  from  her  ancient  home,  — 

A  poor,  forsaken  maid  ; 
No  banner,  flaunting  high  above, 

No  blazoned  cross,  she  bore  ; 
One  holy  book  of  light  and  love 

Was  all  her  worldly  store. 

The  dark  brown  shadows  passed  away, 

And  wider  spread  the  green, 
And,  where  the  savage  used  to  stray, 

The  rising  mart  was  seen  ; 
So,  when  the  laden  winds  had  brought 

Their  showers  of  golden  rain, 
Her  lap  some  precious  gleanings  caught, 

Like  Ruth's  amid  the  grain. 

But  wrath  soon  gathered  uncontrolled 
Among  the  baser  churls, 


42 


ADDITIONAL  POEMS. 


To  see  her  ankles  red  with  gold, 
Her  forehead  white  with  pearls  ; 

"  Who  gave  to  thee  the  glittering  bands 
That  lace  thine  azure  veins  ? 

Who  bade  thee  lift  those  snow-white 

hands 
We  bound  in  gilded  chains  ? " 

"  These  are  the  gems  my  children  gave," 

The  stately  dame  replied  ; 
"The  wise,  the  gentle,  and  the  brave, 

I  nurtured  at  my  side  ; 
If  envy  still  your  bosom  stings, 

Take  back  their  rims  of  gold  ; 
My  sons  will  melt  their  wedding-rings, 

And  give  a  hundred-fold  !  " 


THE  TOAST.  0  tell  me,  ye  who  thought- 
less ask 

Exhausted  nature  for  a  threefold  task, 

In  wit  or  pathos  if  one  share  remains, 

A  safe  investment  for  an  ounce  of  brains  ? 

Hard  is  the  job  to  launch  the  desperate 
pun, 

A  pun-job  dangerous  as  the  Indian  one. 

Turned  by  the  current  of  some  stronger 
wit 

Back  from  the  object  that  you  mean  to 
hit, 

Like  the  strange  missile  which  the  Aus- 
tralian throws, 

Your  verbal  boomerany  slaps  you  on  the 
nose. 

One  vague  inflection  spoils  the  whole 
with  doubt, 

One  trivial  letter  ruins  all,  left  out ; 

A  knot  can  choke  a  felon  into  clay, 

A  not  will  save  him,  spelt  without  the  k ; 

The  smallest  word  has  some  unguarded 
spot, 

And  danger  lurks  in  i  without  a  dot. 

Thus  great  Achilles,  who  had  shown  his 
zeal 


In  healing  wounds,  died  of  a  wounded 
heel ; 

Unhappy  chief,  who,  when  in  childhood 
doused, 

Had  saved  his  bacon,  had  his  feet  been 
soused  ! 

Accursed  heel  that  killed  a  hero  stout  ! 

0,  had  your  mother  known  that  you 
were  out, 

Death  had  not  entered  at  the  trifling 
part 

That  still  defies  the  small  chirurgeon's 
art 

With  corns  and  bunions,  —  not  the  glo- 
rious John, 

Who  wrote  the  book  we  all  have  pon- 
dered on,  — 

But  other  bunions,  bound  in  fleecy  hose, 

To  "  Pilgrim's  Progress  "  unrelenting 
foes  ! 

A  health,  unmingled  with  the  reveller's 
wine, 

To  him  whose  title  is  indeed  divine  ; 

Truth's  sleepless  watchman  on  her  mid- 
night tower, 

Whose  lamp  burns  brightest  when  the 
tempests  lower. 

0  who  can  tell  with  what  a  leaden  flight 

Drag  the  long  watches  of  his  weary 
night, 

While  at  his  feet  the  hoarse  and  blind- 
ing gale 

Strews  the  torn  wreck  and  bursts  the 
fragile  sail, 

When  stars  have  faded,  when  the  wave 
is  dark, 

When  rocks  and  sands  embrace  the 
foundering  bark, 

And  still  he  pleads  with  unavailing  cry, 

Behold  the  light,  0  wanderer,  look  or 
die! 

A  health,  fair  Themis !  Would  the 
enchanted  vine 


THE  STETHOSCOPE   SONG. 


43 


Wreathed  its  green  tendrils  round  this 

cup  of  thine ; 
If  Learning's  radiance  fill  thy  modern 

court, 
Its  glorious   sunshine  streams  through 

Blaekstone's  port  ! 

Lawyers  are  thirsty,  and  their  clients  too, 
Witness  at  least,  if  memory  serve  me 

true, 
Those  old  tribunals,   famed  for  dusty 

suits, 
Where  men    sought   justice   ere    they 

brushed  their  boots  ;  — 
And  what  can  match,  to  solve  a  learned 

doubt, 
The  warmth  within   that   comes   from 

"  cold  without"  ? 

Health  to  the  art  whose  glory  is  to  give 
The  crowning  boon  that  makes  it  life  to 

live. 
Ask  not  her  home  ;  —  the  rock  where 

nature  flings 

Her  arctic  lichen,  last  of  living  things, 
The  gardens,  fragrant  with  the  orient's 

balm, 
From  the  low  jasmine  to  the  star-like 

palm, 
Hail   her  as  mistress  o'er  the  distant 

waves, 
And  yield  their  tribute  to  her  wandering 

slaves. 
Wherever,    moistening    the   ungrateful 

soil, 
The  tear  of  suffering  tracks  the  path  of 

toil, 
There,  in   the   anguish   of  his  fevered 

hours, 
Her  gracious  finger  points  to  healing 

flowers  ; 

Where  the  lost  felon  steals  away  to  die, 
Her  soft  hand  waves  before  his  closing 

eye  ; 
Where  hunted  misery  finds  his  darkest 

lair, 


The  midnight  taper  shows  her  kneeling 

there  ! 
VIRTUE,  —  the    guide  that   men   and 

nations  own ; 
And  LAW,  —  the  bulwark  that  protects 

her  throne  ; 
And    HEALTH,  —  to  all   its   happiest 

charm  that  lends  ; 
These  and  their  servants,  man's  untiring 

friends ; 
Pour  the  bright  lymph  that  Heaven  itself 

lets  fall,  — 
In  one  fair  bumper  let  us  toast  them  all ! 

THE  STETHOSCOPE  SONG. 

A   PROFESSIONAL  BALLAD. 

THERE  was  a  young  man  in  Boston  town, 
He  bought  him  a  STETHOSCOPE  nice 

and  new, 
All  mounted  and  finished  and  polished 

down, 
With  an  ivory  cap  and  a  stopper  too. 

It  happened  a  spider  within  did  crawl, 
And  spun  him  a  web  of  ample  size, 

Wherein  there  chanced  one  day  to  fall 
A  couple  of  very  imprudent  flies. 

The  first  was  a  bottle-fly,  big  and  blue, 
The  second  was  smaller,  and  thin  and 
long; 

So  there  was  a  concert  between  the  two, 
Like  an  octave  flute  and  a  tavern  gong. 

Now  being  from  Paris  but  recently, 
This  fine  young  man  would  show  his 
skill ; 

And  so  they  gave  him,  his  hand  to  try, 
A  hospital  patient  extremely  ill. 

Some  said  that  his  liver  was  short  of  bile, 
And  some  that  his  heart  was  over  size, 


44 


ADDITIONAL  POEMS. 


While  some  kept  arguiug  all  the  while 
He  was  crammed  with  tubercles  up  to 
his  eyes. 

This  fine  young  man  then  up  stepped  he, 
And  all  the  doctors  made  a  pause  ; 

Said  he,  —  The  man  must  die,  you  see, 
By  the  fifty-seventh  of  Louis's  laws. 

But  since  the  case  is  a  desperate  one, 
To  explore  his  chest  it  may  be  well ; 

For  if  he  should  die  and  it  were  not  done, 
You  know  the  autopsy  would  not  tell. 

Then  out  his  stethoscope  he  took, 
And  on  it  placed  his  curious  ear  ; 

Mon  Dieuf  said  he,  with  a  knowing  look, 
"Why  here  is  a  souud  that 's  mighty 
queer  ! 

The  bourdonnement  is  very  clear,  — 
Amphoric  buzzing,  as  I  'm  alive  ! 

Five  doctors  took  their  turn  to  hear  ; 
Amphoric  buzzing,  said  all  the  five. 

There  's  empycma  beyond  a  doubt ; 

We  '11  plunge  a  trocar  in  his  side.  — 
The  diagnosis  was  made  out, 

They  tapped  the  patient  ;  so  he  died. 

Now  such  as  hate  new-fashioned  toys 
Began  to  look  extremely  glum  ; 

They  said  that  rattles  were  made  for  boys , 
And  vowed  that  his  buzzing  was  all  a 
hum. 

There  was  an  old  lady  had  long  been 

sick, 
And  what  was  the  matter  none  did 

know  : 
Her  pulse  was  slow,  though  her  tongue 

was  quick  ; 
To  her  this  knowing  youth  must  go. 

So  there  the  nice  old  lady  sat, 

With  phials  and  boxes  all  in  a  row  ; 


She  asked  the  young  doctor  what  he 

was  at, 
Tothumpher  and  tumble  her  ruffles  so. 

Now,  when  the  stethoscope  came  out, 
The  flies  began  to  buzz  and  whiz  ;  — 

0  ho  !  the  matter  is  clear,  no  doubt ; 
An  aneurism  there  plainly  is. 

The  bruit  de  rdpe  and  the  bruit  de  scie 
And  the  bruit  de  diable  are  all  com- 
bined ; 

How  happy  Bouillaud  would  be, 
If  he  a  case  like  this  could  find  ! 

Now,    when   the    neighboring    doctors 
found 

A  case  so  rare  had  been  descried, 
They  every  day  her  ribs  did  pound 

In  squads  of  twenty  ;  so  she  died. 

Then  six  young  damsels,  slight  and  frail, 
Received    this    kind  young  doctor's 

cares  ; 

They  all  were  getting  slim  and  pale, 
And   short  of   breath   on   mounting 
stairs. 

They  all  made  rhymes  with  "sighs"  and 

"skies," 

And  loathed  their  puddings  and  but- 
tered rolls, 

And  dieted,  much  to  their  friends'  sur- 
prise, 

On  pickles  and  pencils  and  chalk  and 
coals. 

So  fast  their  little  hearts  did  bound, 
The  frightened    insects    buzzed    the 
more  ; 

So  over  all  their  chests  he  found 
The  rdle  sifflant,  and  rdle  sonore. 

He  shook  his  head  ;  —  there  's  grave 

disease,  — 
I  greatly  fear  you  all  must  die  ; 


EXTKACTS   FROM   A  MEDICAL  POEM. 


45 


A  slight  post-mortem,  if  you  please, 
Surviving  friends  would  gratify. 

The  six  young  damsels  wept  aloud, 
Which  so  prevailed  on  six  young  men, 

That  each  his  honest  love  avowed, 
Whereat  they  all  got  well  again. 

This  poor  young  man  was  all  aghast  ; 

The  price  of  stethoscopes  came  down  ; 
And  so  he  was  reduced  at  last 

To  practise  in  a  country  town. 

The  doctors  being  very  sore, 
A  stethoscope  they  did  devise, 

That  had  a  rammer  to  clear  the  bore, 
With  a  knob  at  the  end  to  kill  the  flies. 

Now  use  your  ears,  all  you  that  can, 
But  don't  forget  to  mind  your  eyes, 

Or  you  may  be  cheated,  like  this  young 

man, 
By  a  couple  of  silly,  abnormal  flies. 


EXTRACTS  FROM  A  MEDICAL  POEM. 

THE  STABILITY   OF   SCIENCE. 

THE  feeble  sea-birds,  blinded  in  the 

storms, 
On  some  tall  lighthouse  dash  their  little 

forms, 
And  the  rude  granite  scatters  for  their 

pains 
Those  small  deposits  that  were  meant  for 

brains. 

Yet  the  proud  fabric  in  the  morning's  sun 
Stands  all  unconscious  of  the  mischief 

done  ; 

Still  the  red  beacon  pours  its  evening  rays 
For  the  lost  pilot  with  as  full  a  blaze, 
Nay,  shines,  all  radiance,  o'er  the  scat- 
tered fleet 

Of  gulls  and  boobies  brainless  at  its  feet 
I  tell  their  fate,  though  courtesy  dis 

claims 


To  call  our  kind  by  such  ungentle  names ; 
Yet,  if  your  rashness  bid  you  vainly  dare, 
Think  of  their  doom,  ye  simple,  and 

beware  ! 

See  where  aloft  its  hoary  forehead  rears 
The'towering  pride  of  twice  a  thousand 

years  ! 

Far,  far  below  the  vast  incumbent  pile 
Sleeps  the  gray  rock  from  art's  ^Egean 

isle  ; 

Its  massive  courses,  circling  as  they  rise, 
Swell  from  the  waves  to  mingle  with  the 

skies  ; 

There  every  quarry  lends  its  marble  spoil, 
And  clustering  ages  blend  their  common 

toil; 

The  Greek,  the  Roman,  reared  its  an- 
cient walls, 

The  silent  Arab  arched  its  mystic  halls  ; 
In  that  fair  niche,  by  countless  billows 

laved, 

Trace  the  deep  lines  that  Sydenham  en- 
graved ; 
On  yon  broad  front  that  breasts  the 

changing  swell, 
Mark  where  the  ponderous  sledge  of 

Hunter  fell  ; 
By  that   square    buttress    look  where 

Louis  stands, 
The  stone  yet  warm  from  his  uplifted 

hands ; 
And  say,  0  Science,  shall  thy  life-blood 

freeze, 
When  fluttering  folly  flaps  on  walls  like 

these? 

A    PORTRAIT. 

THOUGHTFUL  in  youth,  but  not  aus- 
tere in  age  ; 

Calm,  but  not  cold,  and  cheerful  though 
a  sage  ; 

Too  true  to  flatter,  and  too  kind  to 
sneer, 

And  only  just  when  seemingly  severe  ; 

So  gently  blending  courtesy  and  art, 


46 


ADDITIONAL   POEMS. 


That  wisdom's  lips  seemed  borrowing 

friendship's  heart. 
Taught  by  the  sorrows  that  his  age  had 

known 

In  others'  trials  to  forget  his  own, 
As  hour  by  hour  his  lengthened  day  de- 

clined, 
A  sweeter  radiance   lingered    o'er   his 

mind. 
Cold  were  the  lips  that  spoke  his  early 

praise, 
And  hushed  the  voices  of  his  morning 

days, 
Yet  the  same  accents  dwelt  on  every 

tongue, 
And  love  renewing  kept  him  ever  young. 

A   SENTIMENT. 


'0  jSi'os  fipaxfa,  —  life  is  but  a  song  ; 
'H  rt-xvy  PMKpfa  —  art  is  wondrous  long  ; 
Yet  to  the  wise  her  paths  are  ever  fair, 
And  Patience  smiles,  though  Genius  may 

despair. 
Give  us  but  knowledge,  though  by  slow 

degrees, 
And  blend  our  toil  with  moments  bright 

as  these  ; 
Let  Friendship's  accents  cheer  our  doubt- 

ful way, 
And  Love's  pure  planet  lend  its  guiding 

ray,— 

Our  tardy  Art  shall  wear  an  angel's  wings, 
And  life  shall  lengthen  with  the  joy  it 

brings  ! 


THE  PARTING  WORD. 

I  MUST  leave  thee,  lady  sweet  ! 
Months  shall  waste  before  we  meet  ; 
Winds  are  fair,  and  sails  are  spread, 
Anchors  leave  their  ocean  bed  ; 
Ere  this  shining  day  grow  dark, 
Skies  shall  gird  my  shoreless  bark  ; 


Through  thy  tears,  0  lady  mine, 
Read  thy  lover's  parting  line. 

When  the  first  sad  sun  shall  set, 
Thou  shalt  tear  thy  locks  of  jet ; 
WThen  the  morning  star  shall  rise, 
Thou  shalt  wake  with  weeping  eyes  ; 
When  the  second  sun  goes  down, 
Thou  more  tranquil  shalt  be  grown, 
Taught  too  well  that  wild  despair 
Dims  thine  eyes,  and  spoils  thy  hair. 

All  the  first  unquiet  week 
Thou  shalt  wear  a  smileless  cheek  ; 
In  the  first  month's  second  half 
Thou  shalt  once  attempt  to  laugh  ; 
Then  in  Pickwick  thou  shalt  dip, 
Slightly  puckering  round  the  lip, 
Till  at  last,  in  sorrow's  spite, 
Samuel  makes  thee  laugh  outright. 

While  the  first  seven  mornings  last, 
Round  thy  chamber  bolted  fast, 
Many  a  youth  shall  fume  and  pout, 
"Hang  the  girl,  she  's  always  out !  " 
While  the  second  week  goes  round, 
Vainly  shall  they  ring  and  pound  ; 
When  the  third  week  shall  begin, 
"  Martha,  let  the  creature  in." 

Now  once  more  the  nattering  throng 
Round  thee  flock  with  smile  and  song, 
But  thy  lips,  unweaned  as  yet, 
Lisp,  "  0,  how  can  I  forget  !  " 
Men  and  devils  both  contrive 
Traps  for  catching  girls  alive  ; 
Eve  was  duped,  and  Helen  kissed,  — 
How,  0  how  can  you  resist  ? 

First  be  careful  of  your  fan, 
Trust  it  not  to  youth  or  man  ; 
Love  has  filled  a  pirate's  sail 
Often  with  its  perfumed  gale. 
Mind  your  kerchief  most  of  all, 
Fingers  touch  when  kerchiefs  fall  ; 


A   SONG   OF   OTHER   DAYS. 


47 


Shorter  ell  than  mercers  clip 
Is  the  space  from  hand  to  lip. 

Trust  not  such  as  talk  in  tropes, 
Full  of  pistols,  daggers,  ropes  ; 
All  the  hemp  that  Russia  bears 
Scarce  would  answer  lovers'  prayers  ; 
Never  thread  was  spun  so  tine, 
Never  spider  stretched  the  line, 
Would  not  hold  the  lovers  true. 
That  would  really  swing  for  you. 

Fiercely  some  shall  storm  and  swear, 
Beating  breasts  in  black  despair  ; 
Others  murmur  with  a  sigh, 
You  must  melt,  or  they  will  die  ; 
Painted  words  on  empty  lies, 
Grubs  with  wings  like  butterflies  ; 
Let  them  die,  and  welcome,  too  ; 
Pray  what  better  could  they  do  ? 

Fare  thee  well,  if  years  efface 
From  thy  heart  love's  burning  trace, 
Keep,  0  keep  that  hallowed  seat 
From  the  tread  of  vulgar  feet ; 
If  the  blue  lips  of  the  sea 
Wait  with  icy  kiss  for  me, 
Let  not  thine  forget  the  vow, 
Sealed  how  often,  Love,  as  now. 

A  SONG  OF  OTHER  DAYS. 

As  o'er  the  glacier's  frozen  sheet 
Breathes  soft  the  Alpine  rose, 
So,  through  life's  desert  springing  sweet, 

The  flower  of  friendship  grows  ; 
And  as,  where'er  the  roses  grow, 

Some  rain  or  dew  descends, 
!T  is  nature's  law  that  wine  should  flow 
To  wet  the  lips  of  friends. 

Then  once  again,  before  we  part, 

My  empty  glass  shall  ring  ; 
And  he  that  has  the  warmest  heart 
Shall  loudest  laugh  and  sing. 

They  say  we  were  not  born  to  eat  ; 
But  gray-haired  sages  think 


It  means,  —  Be  moderate  in  your  meat, 

And  partly  live  to  drink  ; 
For  baser  tribes  the  rivers  flow 

That  know  not  wine  or  song  ; 
Man  wants  but  little  drink  below, 

But  wants  that  little  strong. 
Then  once  again,  etc. 

If  one  bright  drop  is  like  the  gem 

That  decks  a  monarch's  crown, 
One  goblet  holds  a  diadem 

Of  rubies  melted  down  ! 
A  fig  for  Cfesar's  blazing  brow, 

But,  like  the  Egyptian  queen, 
Bid  each  dissolving  jewel  glow 

My  thirsty  lips  between. 
Then  once  again,  etc. 

The  Grecian's  mound,  the  Roman's  urn, 

Are  silent  when  we  call, 
Yet  still  the  purple  grapes  return 

To  cluster  on  the  wall ; 
It  was  a  bright  Immortal's  head 

They  circled  with  the  vine, 
And  o'er  their  best  and  bravest  dead 

They  poured  the  dark-red  wine. 
Then  once  again,  etc. 

Methinks  o'er  every  sparkling  glass 

Young  Eros  waves  his  wings, 
And  echoes  o'er  its  dimples  pass 

From  dead  Anacreon's  strings  ; 
And,  tossing  round  its  beaded  brim 

Their  locks  of  floating  gold, 
With  bacchant  dance  and  choral  hymn 

Return  the  nymphs  of  old. 
Then  once  again,  etc. 

A  welcome  then  to  joy  and  mirth, 

From  hearts  as  fresh  as  ours, 
To  scatter  o'er  the  dust  of  earth 

Their  sweetly  mingled  flowers  ; 
T  is  Wisdom's  self  the  cup  that  fills 

In  spite  of  Folly's  frown, 
And  Nature,  from  her  vine-clad  hills, 

That  rains  her  life-blood  down  ! 


48 


ADDITIONAL   POEMS. 


Then  once  again,  before  we  part, 
My  empty  glass  shall  ring  ; 

And  he  that  has  the  warmest  heart 
Shall  loudest  laugh  and  sing. 

SONG. 

FOR  A  TEMPERANCE  DINNER  TO  WHICH 
LADIES  WERE  INVITED  (NEW  YORK 
MERCANTILE  LIBRARY  ASSOCIATION, 
NOV.,  1842). 

A  HEALTH  to  dear  woman  !  She  bids  us 
untwine, 

From  the  cup  it  encircles,  the  fast-cling- 
ing vine  ; 

But  her  cheek  in  its  crystal  with  pleasure 
will  glow, 

And  mirror  its  bloom  in  the  bright  wave 
below. 

A  health  to  sweet  woman  !  The  days 
are  no  more 

When  she  watched  for  her  lord  till  the 
revel  was  o'er, 

And  smoothed  the  white  pillow,  and 
blushed  when  he  came, 

As  she  pressed  her  cold  lips  on  his  fore- 
head of  flame. 

Alas  for  the  loved  one  !  too  spotless  and 

fair 
The  joys  of  his  banquet  to  chasten  and 

share ; 
Her  eye  lost  its  light  that  his  goblet 

might  shine, 
And  the  rose  of  her  cheek  was  dissolved 

in  his  wine. 

Joy  smiles  in  the  fountain,  health  flows 
in  the  rills, 

As  their  ribbons  of  silver  unwind  from 
the  hills  ; 

They  breathe  not  the  mist  of  the  baccha- 
nal's dream, 

But  the  lilies  of  innocence  float  on  their 
stream. 


Then  a  health  and  a  welcome  to  woman 

once  more  ! 
She  brings  us  a  passport  that  laughs  at 

our  door ; 
It  is  written  on  crimson,  —  its  letters 

are  pearls,  — 
It  is  countersigned  Nature.  —  So,  room 

for  the  Girls  ! 


A  SENTIMENT. 


THE  pledge  of  Friendship  !  it  is  still 

divine, 
Though  watery  floods  have  quenched  its 

burning  wine  ; 
Whatever  vase  the  sacred  drops  may 

hold, 
The  gourd,  the  shell,  the  cup  of  beaten 

gold, 
Around  its  brim  the  hand  of  Nature 

throws 
A  garland  sweeter  than  the  banquet's 

rose. 

Bright  are  the   blushes   of   the   vine- 
wreathed  bowl, 
Warm  with  the  sunshine  of  Anacreon's 

soul, 
But  dearer  memories  gild  the  tasteless 

wave 

That  fainting  Sidney  perished  as  he  gave. 
'T  is  the  heart's  current  lends  the  cup 

its  glow, 
Whate'er    the     fountain    whence    the 

draught  may  flow,  — 
The    diamond    dew  -  drops    sparkling 

through  the  sand, 
Scooped  by  the  Arab  in  his  sunburnt 

hand, 
Or  the  dark  streamlet  oozing  from  the 

snow, 
Where  creep  and  crouch  the  shuddering 

Esquimaux  ;  — 
Ay,  in  the  stream  that,  ere  again  we 


A   RHYMED  LESSON. 


49 


Shall  burst  the  pavement,  glistening  at 

our  feet, 
And,    stealing    silent    from    its    leafy 

hills, 
Thread  all  our  alleys  with  its  thousand 

rills,  — 
In  each  pale  draught  if  generous  feeling 

blend, 
And  o'er  the  goblet  friend  shall  smile  on 

friend, 
Even  cold  Cochituate  every  heart  shall 

warm, 
And  genial  Nature  still  defy  reform  ! 


A  RHYMED  LESSON. 1 
(URANIA.) 

YES,  dear  Enchantress, — wandering 

far  and  long, 
lu  realms  unperfumed  by  the  breath  of 

song, 
Where   flowers  ill-flavored    shed  their 

sweets  around, 
And  bitterest  roots  invade  the  ungenial 

ground, 
Whose  gems  are  crystals  from  the  Epsom 

mine, 
Whose  vineyards  flow  with  antimonial 


Whose  gates  admit  no  mirthful  feature 

in, 
Save  one  gaunt  mocker,  the  Sardonic 

grin, 
Whose  pangs  are  real,  not  the  woes  of 

rhyme 
That   blue-eyed   misses  warble  out  of 

time  ;  — 

Truant,  not  recreant  to  thy  sacred  claim, 
Older  by  reckoning,  but  in  heart  the 

same, 

1  This  poem  was  delivered  before  the  Boston 
Mercantile  Library  Association,  October  14, 
1846. 


Freed  for  a  moment  from  the  chains  of 

toil, 

I  tread  once  more  thy  consecrated  soil ; 
Here  at  thy  feet  my  old  allegiance  own, 
Thy  subject  still,  and  loyal  to  thy 

throne  ! 


My  dazzled  glance  explores  the  crowded 

hall; 

Alas,  how  vain  to  hope  the  smiles  of  all ! 
I  know  my  audience.  All  the  gay  and 

young 

Love  the  light  antics  of  a  playful  tongue ; 
And  these,  remembering  some  expansive 

line 
My  lips  let  loose  among  the  nuts  and 

wine, 

Are  all  impatience  till  the  opening  pun 
Proclaims  the  witty  shamfight  is  begun. 
Two  fifths  at  least,  if  not  the  total  half, 
Have  come  infuriate  for  an  earthquake 

laugh  ; 
I  know  full  well  what  alderman   has 

tied 

His  red  bandanna  tight  about  his  side  ; 
I  see  the  mother,  who,  aware  that 

boys 
Perform  their  laughter  with  superfluous 

noise, 
Beside  her  kerchief,  brought  an  extra 

one 
To  stop  the  explosions  of  her  bursting 


I  know  a  tailor,  once  a  friend  of  mine, 
Expects  great  doings    in    the    button 

line  ;  — 
For  mirth's  concussions  rip  the  outward 

case, 
And  plant  the  stitches  in  a  tenderer 

place. 
I  know  my  audience  ;  —  these  shall  have 

their  due  ; 
A  smile  awaits  them  ere  my  song  is 

through  ! 


50 


ADDITIONAL   POEMS. 


I  know  myself.  Not  servile  for  ap- 
plause, 

My  Muse  permits  no  deprecating  clause ; 

Modest  or  vain,  she  will  not  be  denied 

One  bold  confession  due  to  honest  pride ; 

And  well  she  knows  the  drooping  veil 
of  song 

Shall  save  her  boldness  from  the  cavil- 
ler's wrong. 

Her  sweeter  voice  the  Heavenly  Maid 
imparts 

To  tell  the  secrets  of  our  aching  hearts  ; 

For  this,  a  suppliant,  captive,  prostrate, 
bound, 

She  kneels  imploring  at  the  feet  of 
sound ; 

For  this,  convulsed  in  thought's  mater- 
nal pains, 

She  loads  her  arms  with  rhyme's  re- 
sounding chains  ; 

Faint  though  the  music  of  her  fetters 
be, 

It  lends  one  charm  ;  —  her  lips  are  ever 
free  ! 

Think  not  I  come,  in  manhood's  fiery 
noon, 

To  steal  his  laurels  from  the  stage  buf- 
foon ; 

His  sword  of  lath  the  harlequin  may 
wield  ; 

Behold  the  star  upon  my  lifted  shield  ! 

Though  the  just  critic  pass  my  humble 
name, 

And  sweeter  lips  have  drained  the  cup 
of  fame, 

While  my  gay  stanza  pleased  the  ban- 
quet's lords, 

The  soul  within  was  tuned  to  deeper 
chords ! 

Say,  shall  my  arms,  in  other  conflicts 
taught 

To  swing  aloft  the  ponderous  mace  of 
thought, 

Lift,  in  obedience  to  a  school-girl's  law, 


Mirth's  tinsel  wand  or  laughter's  tick- 
ling straw  ? 

Say,  shall  I  wound  with  satire's  rankling 
spear 

The  pure,  warm  hearts  that  bid  me  wel- 
come here  ? 

No  !  while  I  wander  through  the  land 
of  dreams, 

To  strive  with  great  and  play  with  tri- 
fling themes, 

Let  some  kind  meaning  fill  the  varied 
line  ; 

You  have  your  judgment ;  will  you 
trust  to  mine  ? 


Between  two  breaths  what  crowded 
mysteries  lie,  — 

The  first  short  gasp,  the  last  and  long- 
drawn  sigh ! 

Like  phantoms  painted  on  the  magic 
slide, 

Forth  from  the  darkness  of  the  past  we 
glide, 

As  living  shadows  for  a  moment  seen 

In  airy  pageant  on  the  eternal  screen, 

Traced  by  a  ray  from  one  unchanging 
flame, 

Then  seek  the  dust  and  stillness  whence 
we  came. 

But  whence  and  why,  our  trembling 

souls  inquire, 

Caught  these  dim  visions  their  awaken- 
ing fire  ? 

0  who  forgets  when  first  the  piercing 

thought 

Through  childhood's  musings  found  its 
way  unsought  ? 

1  AM  ;  —  I  LIVE.     The  mystery  and  the 

fear 
When  the  dread  question,  WHAT  HAS 

BROUGHT  ME  HERE  ? 

Burst  through  life's  twilight,  as  before 
the  sun 


A   RHYMED  LESSON. 


51 


Roll  the  deep  thunders  of  the  morning 
gun  ! 

Are  angel  faces,  silent  and  serene, 
Bent  on  the  conflicts  of  this  little  scene, 
Whose  dream-like  efforts,  whose  unreal 

strife, 
Are  but  the  preludes  to  a  larger  life  ? 

Or  does  life's  summer  see  the  end  of 
all, 

These  leaves  of  being  mouldering  as  they 
fall, 

As  the  old  poet  vaguely  used  to  deem, 

As  WESLEY  questioned  in  his  youthful 
dream  ? 

0  could  such  mockery  reach  our  souls 
indeed, 

Give  back  the  Pharaohs'  or  the  Athe- 
nian's creed ; 

Better  than  this  a  Heaven  of  man's 
device,  — 

The  Indian's  sports,  the  Moslem's  para- 
dise ! 

Or  is  our  being's  only  end  and  aim 
To  add  new  glories  to  our  Maker's  name, 
As  the   poor  insect,  shrivelling  in  the 

blaze, 
Lends  a  faint  sparkle  to  its  streaming 

rays  1 
Does  earth  send  upwards  to  the  Eternal's 

ear 
The    mingled  discords   of  her  jarring 

sphere 
To    swell  his  anthem,    while   creation 

rings 
With  notes  of  anguish  from  its  shattered 

strings  ? 

Is  it  for  this  the  immortal  Artist  means 
These   conscious,    throbbing,    agonized 

machines  ? 

Dark  is  the  soul  whose  sullen  creed 
can  bind 


In  chains  like  these  the  all-embracing 
Mind; 

No  !  two-faced  bigot,  thou  dost  ill  re- 
prove 

The  sensual,  selfish,  yet  benignant  Jove, 

And  praise  a  tyrant  throned  in  lonely 
pride, 

Who  loves  himself,  and  cares  for  naught 
beside  ; 

Who  gave  thee,  summoned  from  pri- 
meval night, 

A  thousand  laws,  and  not  a  single 
right,  — 

A  heart  to  feel,  and  quivering  nerves  to 
thrill, 

The  sense  of  wrong,  the  death-defying 
will ; 

Who  girt  thy  senses  with  this  goodly 
frame, 

Its  earthly  glories  and  its  orbs  of  flame, 

Not  for  thyself,  unworthy  of  a  thought, 

Poor  helpless  victim  of  a  life  unsought, 

But  all  for  him,  unchanging  and  su- 
preme, 

The  heartless  centre  of  thy  frozen 
scheme ! 

Trust  not  the  teacher  with  his  lying 

scroll, 
Who  tears  the  charter  of  thy  shuddering 

soul  ; 
The  God  of  love,  who  gave  the  breath 

that  warms 

All  living  dust  in  all  its  varied  forms, 
Asks  not  the  tribute  of  a  world  like  this 
To  fill  the  measure  of  his  perfect  bliss. 
Though  winged  with  life  through  all  its 

radiant  shores, 

Creation  flowed  with  unexhausted  stores 
Cherub  and  seraph  had  not  yet  enjoyed  ; 
For  this  he  called  thee  from  the  quick- 
ening void  ! 

Nor  this  alone  ;  a  larger  gift  was  thine, 
A  mightier  purpose  swelled  his  vast  de- 
sign ; 


52 


ADDITIONAL   POEMS. 


Thought, — conscience, — will, — to  make 

them  all  thine  own, 
He  rent  a  pillar  from  the  eternal  throne  ! 

Made  in  his  image,  thou  must  nobly 

dare 
The  thorny   crown   of   sovereignty  to 

share. 

With  eye  uplifted,  it  is  thine  to  view, 
From  thine  own  centre,  Heaven's  o'er- 

arching  blue  ; 

So  round  thy  heart  a  beaming  circle  lies 
No  fiend  can  blot,  no  hypocrite  disguise  ; 
From  all  its  orbs  one  cheering  voice  is 

heard, 
Full  to  thine  ear  it  bears  the  Father's 

word, 
Now,  as  in   Eden   where  his  first-born 

trod : 
"  Seek  thine  own  welfare,  true  to  man 

and  God  ! " 

Think  not  too  meanly  of  thy  low  es- 
tate ; 

Thou  hast  a  choice  ;  to  choose  is  to  cre- 
ate ! 

Remember  whose  the  sacred  lips  that  tell, 
Angels  approve  thee  when  thy  choice  is 

well  ; 
Remember,   One,    a  judge  of  righteous 

men, 
Swore  to  spare  Sodom  if  she  held  but 

ten  ! 
Use  well  the  freedom  which  thy  Master 

gave, 
(Think'st  thou  that  Heaven  can  tolerate 

a  slave  ?) 
And  He  who  made  thee  to  be  just  and 

true 
Will  bless  thee,  love  thee,  —  ay,  respect 

thee  too  ! 


Nature  has  placed  thee  on  a  change- 
ful tide, 

To  breast  its  waves,  but  not  without  a 
guide  ; 


Yet,  as  the  needle  will  forget  its  aim, 
Jarred  by  the  fury  of  the  electric  flarne, 
As  the  true  current  it  will  falsely  feel, 
Warped  from  its  axis  by  a  freight  of  steel; 
So  will  thy  CONSCIENCE  lose  its  balanced 

truth, 
If  passion's   lightning    fall    upon   thy 

youth ; 
So   the   pure   effluence   quit  its  sacred 

hold, 
Girt  round  too   deeply  with  magnetic 

gold. 
Go  to  yon  tower,  where  busy  science 

plies 
Her  vast  antennae,  feeling  through  the 

skies ; 

That  little  vernier  on  whose  slender  lines 
The  midnight  taper  tremblesas  it  shines, 
A  silent  index,  tracks  the  planets'  march 
In  all  their  wanderings  through  the  ethe- 
real arch, 
Tells  through  the  mist  where  dazzled 

Mercury  burns, 

And  marks  the  spot  where  Uranus  re- 
turns. 

So,  till  by  wrong  or  negligence  effaced, 
The  living  index  which  thy  Maker  traced 
Repeats  the  line  each  starry  Virtue  draws 
Through  the  wide  circuit  of  creation's 

laws  ; 
Still  tracks  unchanged  the  everlasting 

ray 
Where  the  dark  shadows  of  temptation 

stray  ; 
But,  once   defaced,  forgets  the  orbs  of 

light, 

And  leaves  thee  wandering  o'er  the  ex- 
panse of  night. 

"What  is  thy  creed  ?  "  a  hundred  lips 

inquire  ; 

"  Thou  seekest  God  beneath  what  Chris- 
tian spire  ? " 

Nor  ask  they  idly,  for  uncounted  lies 
Float  upward  on  the  smoke  of  sacrifice  ; 


A   RHYMED   LESSON. 


53 


When  man's  first  incense  rose  above  the 

plain, 
Of  earth's  two  altars  one  was  built  by 

Cain  ! 
Uncursed  by  doubt,  our  earliest  creed 

we  take  ; 
We  love  the  precepts  for  the  teacher's 

sake  ; 
The  simple   lessons  which  the  nursery 

taught 
Fell  soft  and  stainless  on  the  buds  of 

thought, 
And  the  full  blossom  owes  its  fairest 

hue 
To  those  sweet  tear-drops  of  affection's 

dew. 
Too  oft  the  light  that  led  our  earlier 

hours 
Fades  with  the  perfume  of  our  cradle 

flowers  ; 
The  clear,  cold  question  chills  to  frozen 

doubt ; 

Tired  of  beliefs,  we  dread  to  live  with- 
out ; 

0  then,  if  Reason  waver  at  thy  side, 
Let   humbler   Memory   be   thy    gentle 

guide  ; 
Go  to  thy  birthplace,  and,  if  faith  was 

there, 
Repeat  thy  father's  creed,  ihj  mother's 


prayer 


Faith  loves  to  lean  on  Time's  destroy- 
ing arm, 

And  age,  like  distance,  lends  a  double 
charm  ; 

In  dim  cathedrals,  dark  with  vaulted 
gloom, 

What  holy  awe  invests  the  saintly 
tomb! 

There  pride  will  bow,  and  anxious  care 
expand, 

And  creeping  avarice  come  with  open 
hand  ; 

The  gay  can  weep,  the  impious  can  adore, 


From  morn's  first  glimmerings  on  the 
chancel  floor, 

Till    dying  sunset  sheds    his   crimson 
stains 

Through  the  faint  halos  of  the  irised 

panes. 

Yet   there  are  graves,  whose  rudely- 
shapen  sod 

Bears  the  fresh  footprints  where  the  sex- 
ton trod  ; 

Graves  where  the  verdure  has  not  dared 
to  shoot, 

Where   the  chance  wild-flower  has  not 
fixed  its  root, 

Whose  slumbering  tenants,  dead  without 
a  name, 

The  eternal  record  shall  at  length  pro- 
claim 

Pure  as  the  holiest  in  the  long  array 

Of  hooded,  mitred,  or  tiaraed  clay  ! 

Come,  seek  the  air  ;  some  pictures  we 

may  gain 
Whose  passing  shadows  shall  not  be  in 

vain  ; 
Not  from  the   scenes  that   crowd   the 

stranger's  soil, 
Not  from  our  own  amidst  the  stir  of 

toil, 
But  when  the  Sabbath  brings  its  kind 

release, 
And  Care  lies  slumbering  on  the  lap  of 

Peace. 


The  air  is  hushed  ;  the  street  is  holy 

ground  ; 

Hark  !   The  sweet  bells  renew  their  wel- 
come sound ; 

As  one  by  one  awakes  each  silent  tongue, 
It  tells  the  turret  whence  its  voice  is 
flung. 

The  Chapel,  last  of  sublunary  things 
That  stirs  our  echoes  with  the  name  of 
Kings, 


54 


ADDITIONAL   POEMS. 


Whose  bell,  just  glistening  from  the  font 
and  forge, 

Rolled  its  proud  requiem  for  the  second 
George, 

Solemn  and  swelling,  as  of  old  it  rang, 

Flings  to  the  wind  its  deep,  sonorous 
clang ;  — 

The  simpler  pile,  that,  mindful  of  the 
hour 

"When  Howe's  artillery  shook  its  half- 
built  tower, 

Wears  on  its  bosom ,  as  a  bride  might  do, 

The  iron  breastpin  which  the  "  Rebels  " 
threw, 

Wakes  the  sharp  echoes  with  the  quiv- 
ering thrill 

Of  keen  vibrations,  tremulous  and 
shrill ;  — 

Aloft,  suspended  in  the  morning's  fire, 

Crash  the  vast  cymbals  from  the  South- 
ern spire  ;  — 

The  Giant,  standing  by  the  elm-clad 
green, 

His  white  lance  lifted  o'er  the  silent 
scene, 

Whirling  in  air  his  brazen  goblet  round, 

Swings  from  its  brim  the  swollen  floods 
of  sound  ;  — 

While,  sad  with  memories  of  the  olden 
time, 

Throbs  from  his  tower  the  Northern 
Minstrel's  chime, 

Faint,  single  tones,  that  spell  their  an- 
cient song, 

But  tears  still  follow  as  they  breathe 
along. 

Child  of  the  soil,  whom  fortune  sends 

to  range 

Where  man  and  nature,  faith  and  cus- 
toms change, 

Borne  in  thy  memory,  each  familiar  tone 
Mourns  on  the  winds  that  sigh  in  every 


When  Ceylon  sweeps  thee  with  her  per- 
fumed breeze 

Through  the  warm  billows  of  the  Indian 
seas  ; 

When  —  ship  and  shadow  blended  both 
in  one  — 

Flames  o'er  thy  mast  the  equatorial  sun, 

From  sparkling  midnight  to  refulgent 
noon 

Thy  canvas  swelling  with  the  still  mon- 
soon ; 

When  through  thy  shrouds  the  wild  tor- 
nado sings, 

And  thy  poor  seabird  folds  her  tattered 
wings,  — 

Oft  will  delusion  o'er  thy  senses  steal, 

And  airy  echoes  ring  the  Sabbath  peal ! 

Then,  dim  with  grateful  tears,  in  long 
array 

Rise  the  fair  town,  the  island-studded 
bay, 

Home,  with  its  smiling  board,  its  cheer- 
ing fire, 

The  half-choked  welcome  of  the  expect- 
ing sire, 

The  mother's  kiss,  and,  still  if  aught  re- 
main, 

Our  whispering  hearts  shall  aid  the  silent 

strain.  — 

Ah,  let  the  dreamer  o'er  the  taffrail 
lean 

To  muse  unheeded,  and  to  weep  unseen  ; 

Fear  not  the  tropic's  dews,  the  evening's 
chills, 

His  heart  lies  warm  among  his  triple 
hills  ! 

Turned  from  her  path  by  this  deceit- 
ful gleam, 

My  wayward  fancy  half  forgets  her 
theme ; 

See  through  the  streets  that  slumbered 
in  repose 

The  living  current  of  devotion  flows  ; 

Its  varied  forms  in  one  harmonious  band, 


A   RHYMED   LESSON. 


55 


Age  leading  childhood  by  its  dimpled 

hand, 
Want,  in  the  robe  whose  faded  edges 

fall 

To  tell  of  rags  beneath  the  tartan  shawl, 
And  wealth,  in  silks  that,  fluttering  to 

appear, 
Lift  the  deep  borders  of  the  proud  cash- 


See,  but  glance  briefly,  sorrow-worn 

and  pale, 
Those  sxmken  cheeks  beneath  the  widow's 

veil ; 
Alone  she  wanders  where  with  him  she 

trod, 
No  arm  to  stay  her,  but  she  leans  on 

God. 
While  other  doublets  deviate  here  and 

there, 
What  secret  handcuff  binds  that  pretty 

pair  ? 
Compactest    couple !    pressing   side   to 

side,  — 
Ah,  the  white  bonnet  that  reveals  the 

bride  ! 
By  the    white    neckcloth,    with    its 

straitened  tie, 
The  sober  hat,    the    Sabbath-speaking 

eye, 
Severe  and  smileless,  he  that  runs  may 

read 

The  stern  disciple  of  Geneva's  creed  ; 
Decent  and  slow,    behold  his   solemn 

march  ; 
Silent  he  enters  through  yon  crowded 

arch. 
A  livelier   bearing   of    the   outward 

man, 
The   light-hued   gloves,    the  undevout 

rattan, 
Now  smartly  raised  or   half-profane!  y 

twirled,  — 

A.  bright,  fresh  twinkle  from  the  week- 
day world,  — 


Tell  their  plain  story ;  —  yes,  thine  eyes 

behold. 
A  cheerful  Christian  from  the  liberal  fold. 

Down  the  chill  street  that  curves  in 

gloomiest  shade 

What  marks  betray  yon  solitary  maid  ? 
The  cheek's  red  rose,  that  speaks  of 

balmier  air  ; 
The  Celtic  hue  that  shades  her  braided 

hair; 

The  gilded  missal  in  her  kerchief  tied  ; 
Poor  Nora,  exile  from  Killarney's  side ! 
Sister  in  toil,   though  blanched  by 

colder  skies, 
That  left  their  azure  in   her  downcast 

eyes, 
See  pallid    Margaret,    Labor's    patient 

child, 
Scarce  weaned  from  home,  the  nursling 

of  the  wild, 
Where  white  Katahdin  o'er  the  horizon 

shines, 
And   broad  Penobscot  dashes  through 

the  pines. 
Still,  as  she  hastes,  her  careful  fingers 

hold 
The  unfailing  hymn-book  in  its  cambric 

fold. 
Six  days  at  drudgery's  heavy  wheel  she 

stands, 
The  seventh  sweet  morning  folds  her 

weary  hands ; 
Yes,  child  of  suffering,  thou  mayst  well 

be  sure 
He  who  ordained  the  Sabbath  loves  the 

poor  ! 

This  weekly  picture  faithful  Memory 

draws, 

Nor  claims  the  noisy  tribute  of  applause ; 
Faint  is  the  glow  such  barren  hopes  can 

lend, 
And  frail  the  line  that  asks  no  loftier 

end. 


56 


ADDITIONAL  POEMS. 


Trust  me,  kind  listener,   I  will  yet 

beguile 
Thy  saddened  features  of  the  promised 

smile  ; 
This    magic    mantle    thou    must   well 

divide, 

It  has  its  sable  and  its  ermine  side  ; 
Yet,  ere  the  lining  of  the  robe  appears, 
Take  thou  in  silence  what  I  give   in 

tears. 


Dear  listening  soul,   this  transitory 

scene 

Of  murmuring  stillness,  busily  serene,  — 
This  solemn  pause,  the  breathing-space 

of  man, 

The  halt  of  toil's  exhausted  caravan,  — 
Comes  sweet  with  music  to  thy  wearied 

ear ; 
Rise  with  its  anthems  to  a  holier  sphere  ! 

Deal  meekly,  gently,  with  the  hopes 

that  guide 
The  lowliest  brother  straying  from  thy 

side ; 
If  right,  they  bid  thee  tremble  for  thine 

own, 
If  wrong,  the  verdict  is  for  God  alone  ! 

What  though  the  champions  of  thy 

faith  esteem 
The    sprinkled  fountain   or    baptismal 

stream ; 

Shall  jealous  passions  in  unseemly  strife 
Cross  their  dark  weapons  o'er  the  waves 

of  life  ? 


Let  my  free  soul,  expanding  as  it  can, 
Leave   to   his  scheme   the    thoughtful 

Puritan ; 

But  Calvin's  dogma  shall  my  lips  de- 
ride ? 

In  that    stern  faith    my  angel  Mary 
died  ;  — 


Or  ask  if  mercy's  milder  creed  can  save, 
Sweet  sister,  risen  from  thy  new-made 
grave  ? 


True,  the  harsh  founders  of  thy  church 

reviled 
That  ancient  faith,  the  trust  of  Erin's 

child  ; 
Must  thou  be  raking  in  the  crumbled 

past 
For  racks  and  fagots  in  her  teeth  to 

cast? 

See  from  the  ashes  of  Helvetia's  pile 
The  whitened    skull  of   old    Servetus» 

smile  ! 
Round  her  young  heart  thy  "Romish 

Upas  "  threw 
Its  firm,  deep  fibres,  strengthening  as 

she  grew  ; 
Thy    sneering    voice    may    call    them 

"  Popish  tricks,"  — 

Her  Latin  prayers,  her  dangling  cruci- 
fix,— 
But  De  Profundis  blessed  her  father's 

grave  ; 
That   "idol"  cross  her  dying  mother 

gave  ! 
What  if  some  angel  looks  with  equal 

eyes 
On  her  and  thee,  the  simple  and  the 

wise, 
Writes   each   dark    fault    against    thy 

brighter  creed, 
And   drops  a   tear  with  every  foolish 

bead  ! 


Grieve,  as  thoii  must,  o'er  history's 

reeking  page  ; 
Blush  for  the  wrongs  that  stain   thy 

happier  age  ; 
Strive    with    the   wanderer    from    the 

better  path, 
Bearing  thy  message   meekly,    not  in 

wrath  ; 


A   RHYMED   LESSON. 


57 


Weep  for  the  frail  that  err,  the  weak 

that  fall, 
Have  thine  own  faith,  —  but  hope  and 

pray  for  all ! 

Faith  ;  Conscience  ;  Love.    A  meaner 

task  remains, 
And  humbler  thoughts  must  creep  in 

lowlier  strains  ; 
Shalt  thou  be  honest  ?   Ask  the  worldly 

schools, 
And  all  will  tell  thee  knaves  are  busier 

fools ; 
Prudent  ?  Industrious  ?  Let  not  modern 

pens 
instruct  "Poor  Richard's"  fellow-citi- 


Be  firm  !  one  constant  element  in  luck 
Is  genuine,  solid,  old  Teutonic  pluck  ; 
See  yon  tall  shaft  ;  it  felt  the  earth- 
quake's thrill, 

Clung  to  its  base,  and  greets  the  sun- 
rise still. 

Stick  to  your  aim  ;  the  mongrel's  hold 

will  slip, 
But  only  crowbars  loose  the  bulldog's 

grip; 
Small  as  he  looks,  the  jaw  that  never 

yields 
Drags  down  the  bellowing  monarch  of 

the  fields  ! 

Yet  in  opinions  look  not  always  back  ; 
Your  wake  is  nothing,  mind  the  coming 

track  ; 
Leave  what  you  've  done  for  what  you 

have  to  do  ; 
Don't  be  "consistent,"  but  be  simply 

true. 

Don't   catch  the  fidgets ;    you  have 

found  your  .place 
Just  in  the  focus  of  a  nervous  race, 


Fretful  to  change,  and  rabid  to  discuss, 
Full  of  excitements,  always  in  a  fuss  ; — 
Think  of  the  patriarchs  ;  then  compare 

as  men 
These    lean-cheeked    maniacs    of    the 

tongue  and  pen  ! 
Run,  if  you  like,  but  try  to  keep  your 

breath  ; 
Work  like  a  man,  but  don't  be  worked 

to  death  ; 
And  with  new  notions,  —  let  me  change 

the  rule,  — 
Don't  strike  the  iron  till  it  's  slightly 

cool. 

Choose  well  your  set ;  our  feeble  na- 
ture seeks 
The  aid  of  clubs,  the  countenance  of 

cliques  ; 

And  with  this  object  settle  first  of  all 
Your  weight  of  metal  and  your  size  of 

ball. 
Track  not  the  steps  of  such  as  hold  you 

cheap, 
Too  mean  to  prize,  though  good  enough 

to  keep  ; 
The   "real,   genuine,  no-mistake  Tom 

Thumbs  " 
Are  little  people  fed  on  great  men's 

crumbs. 
Yet  keep  no  followers  of  that  hateful 

brood 
That  basely  mingles  with  its  wholesome 

food 

The  tumid  reptile,  which,  the  poet  said, 
Doth  wear  a  precious  jewel  in  his  head. 

If  the  wild  filly,   "  Progress,"  thou 

wouldst  ride, 
Have  young  companions  ever  at  thy 

side  ; 
But,  wouldst  thou  stride  the  stanch  old 

mare,  "Success," 
Go  with  thine  elders,  though  they  please 

thee  less. 


58 


ADDITIONAL  POEMS. 


Shun  such  as  lounge  through  after- 
noons and  eves, 
And  on   thy  dial  write,    "Beware  of 

thieves  ! " 

Felon  of  minutes,  never  taught  to  feel 
The  worth  of  treasures  which  thy  fingers 

steal, 

Pick  my  left  pocket  of  its  silver  dime, 
But    spare    the  right,  —  it  holds    my 
golden  time  ! 

Does  praise   delight  thee  ?      Choose 

some  ultra  side  ; 

A  sure  old  recipe,  and  often  tried  ; 
Be  its  apostle,  congressman,  or  bard, 
Spokesman,  or  jokesman,  only  drive  it 

hard  ; 
But  know  the  forfeit  which  thy  choice 

abides, 
For  on  two  wheels  the  poor  reformer 

rides, 

One  black  with  epithets  the  anti  throws, 
One  white  with  flattery  painted  by  the 

pros. 

Though  books  on  MANNERS  are  not 
out  of  print, 

An  honest  tongue  may  drop  a  harmless 

hint. 

Stop  not,    unthinking,   every  friend 
you  meet, 

To  spin  your  wordy  fabric  in  the  street ; 

While  you  are  emptying  your  colloquial 
pack, 

The  fiend  Lumbago   jumps    upon  his 

back. 

Nor  cloud  his  features  with  the  un- 
welcome tale 

Of  how  he  looks,  if  haply  thin  and  pale  ; 

Health  is  a  subject  for  his  child,  his 
wife, 

And  the  rude  office  that  insures  his  life. 
Look  in  his  face,  to  meet  thy  neigh- 
bor's soul, 

Not  on  his  garments,  to  detect  a  hole  ; 


"How  to  observe,"  is  what  thy  pages 

show, 
Pride  of  thy  sex,  Miss   Harriet  Mar- 

tineau  ! 
0,  what  a  precious  book  the  one  would 

be 
That  taught  observers  what  they  're  not 

to  see  ! 

I  tell  in  verse,  —  "t  were  better  done 
in  prose,  — 

One  curious  trick  that  everybody  knows  ; 

Once  form  this  habit,  and  it  's  very 
strange 

How  long  it  sticks,  how  hard  it  is  to 
change. 

Two  friendly  people,  both  disposed  to 
smile, 

Who  meet,  like  others,  every  little 
while, 

Instead  of  passing  with  a  pleasant  bow, 

And  "How  d'ye  do?"  or  "How's 
your  uncle  now  ? " 

Impelled  by  feelings  in  their  nature  kind, 

But  slightly  weak,  and  somewhat  unde- 
fined, 

Rush  at  each  other,  make  a  sudden 
stand, 

Begin  to  talk,  expatiate,  and  expand  ; 

Each  looks  quite  radiant,  seems  ex- 
tremely struck, 

Their  meeting  so  was  such  a  piece  of 
luck; 

Each  thinks  the  other  thinks  he  'a 
greatly  pleased 

To  screw  the  vice  in  which  they  both 
are  squeezed  ; 

So  there  they  talk,  in  dust,  or  mud,  or 


Both  bored  to  death,  and  both  afraid  to 

go! 
Your  hat  once  lifted,   do  not  hang 

your  fire, 
Nor,  like  slow  Ajax,  fighting  still,  re- 

tire ; 


A   KHYMED   LESSON. 


59 


When  your  old  castor  on  your  crown 

you  clap, 

Go  off ;  you  've  mounted  your  percussion 
cap. 


Some  words  on  LANGUAGE  may  be 

well  applied, 
And  take  them  kindly,   though  they 

touch  your  pride  ; 
Words  lead  to  things  ;  a  scale  is  more 

precise,  — 
Coarse  speech,  bad  grammar,  swearing, 

drinking,  vice. 

Our  cold  Northeaster's  icy  fetter  clips 
The  native  freedom  of  the  Saxon  lips  ; 
See  the  brown  peasant  of  the  plastic 

South, 
How  all  his  passions  play  about  his 

mouth! 
With  us,  the  feature  that  transmits  the 

soul, 

A  frozen,  passive,  palsied  breathing-hole. 
The  crampy  shackles  of  the  ploughboy's 

walk 
Tie  the  small  muscles  when  he  strives  to 

talk  ; 

Not  all  the  pumice  of  the  polished  town 
Can  smooth  this  roughness  of  the  barn- 
yard down  ; 

Rich,  honored,  titled,  he  betrays  his  race 
By  this  one  mark,  —  he  's  awkward  in 

the  face  ;  — 

Nature's  rude  impress,  long  before  he  knew 

The  sunny  street  that  holds  the  sifted  few. 

It  can't  be  helped,  though,  if  we  're 

taken  young, 
We  gain  some  freedom  of  the  lips  and 

tongue ; 

But  school  and  college  often  try  in  vain 
To  break  the  padlock  of  our  boyhood's 

chain  : 
One  stubborn  word  will  prove  this  axiom 

true,  — 
No  quondam  rustic  can  enunciate  view. 


A  few  brief  stanzas  may  be  well  em- 
ployed 
To  speak  of  errors  we  can  all  avoid. 

Learning  condemns  beyond  the  reach 

of  hope 
The  careless  lips  that  speak  of  soap  for 

soap  ; 

Her  edict  exiles  from  her  fair  abode 
The  clownish  voice  that  utters  road  for 

road  : 
Less  stern  to  him  who  calls  his  coat  a 

coat, 
And    steers  his  boat,   believing    it    a 

boat, 

She  pardoned  one,  our  classic  city's  boast, 
Who  said  at  Cambridge,  most  instead  of 

m5st, 
But  knit  her  brows  and  stamped  her 

angry  foot 
To  hear  a  Teacher  call  a  root  a  root. 

Once  more  ;  speak  clearly,  if  you  speak 

at  all  ; 
Carve  every  word    before   you    let    it 

fall; 

Don't,  like  a  lecturer  or  dramatic  star, 
Try  over  hard  to  roll  the  British  R  ; 
Do  put  your  accents  in  the  proper  spot ; 
Don't,  —  let  me  beg  you,  —  don't  say 

"How? "for  "What?" 
And,  when  you  stick  on  conversation's 

burrs, 
Don't  strew  your  pathway  with  those 

dreadful  urs. 

From  little  matters  let  us  pass  to 
less, 

And  lightly  touch  the  mysteries  of  DRESS  ; 

The  outward  forms  the  inner  man  re- 
veal, — 

We  guess  the  pulp  before  we  cut  the 
peel. 

I  leave  the  broadcloth,  —  coats  and 
all  the  rest,  — 


ADDITIONAL   POEMS. 


The  dangerous  waistcoat,  called  by  cock- 
neys "vest," 
The  things  named  "pants"  in  certain 


A  word  not  made  for  gentlemen,  but 
"gents"; 

One  single  precept  might  the  whole  con- 
dense : 

Be  sure  your  tailor  is  a  man  of  sense  ; 

But  add  a  little  care,  a  decent  pride, 

And  always  err  upon  the  sober  side. 

Three  pairs  of  boots  one  pair  of  feet  de- 
mands, 

If  polished  daily  by  the  owner's  hands  ; 

If  the  dark  menial's  visit  save  from 
this, 

Have  twice  the  number,  for  he  '11  some- 
times miss. 

One  pair  for  critics  of  the  nicer  sex, 

Close  in  the  instep's  clinging  circum- 
flex, 

Long,  narrow,  light ;  the  Gallic  boot  of 
love, 

A  kind  of  cross  between  a  boot  and 
glove. 

Compact,  but  easy,  strong,  substantial, 
square, 

Let  native  art  compile  the  medium  pair. 

The  third  remains,  and  let  your  tasteful 
skill 

Here  show  some  relics  of  affection  still ; 

Let  no  stiff  cowhide,  reeking  from  the 
tan, 

No  rough  caoutchouc,  no  deformed  bro- 
gan, 

Disgrace  the  tapering  outline  of  your 
feet, 

Though  yellow  torrents  gurgle  through 
the  street. 

"Wear  seemly  gloves  ;  not  black,  nor 

yet  too  light, 

And  least  of  all  the  pair  that  once  was 
white  ; 


Let  the  dead  party  where  you  told  your 

loves 
Bury  in  peace  its  dead  bouquets  and 

gloves ; 

Shave  like  the  goat,  if  so  your  fancy  bids, 
But  be  a  parent,  —  don't  neglect  your 

kids. 

Have  a  good  hat ;  the  secret  of  your 
looks 

Lives  with  the  beaver  in  Canadian  brooks ; 

Virtue  may  flourish  in  an  old  cravat, 

But  man  and  nature  scorn  the  shocking 
hat. 

Does  beauty  slight  you  from  her  gay 
abodes  ? 

Like  bright  Apollo,  you  must  take  to 
Hhoades,  — 

Mount  the  new  castor, — ice  itself  will 
melt ; 

Boots,  gloves,  may  fail ;  the  hat  is  al- 
ways felt ! 

Be  shy  of  breastpins  ;  plain,  well- 
ironed  white, 

With  small  pearl  buttons,  — two  of  them 
in  sight,  — 

Is  always  genuine,  while  your  gems  may 
pass, 

Though  real  diamonds,  for  ignoble  glass  ; 

But  spurn  those  paltry  Cisatlantic  lies, 

That  round  his  breast  the  shabby  rustic 
ties  ; 

Breathe  not  the  name,  profaned  to  hallow 
things 

The  indignant  laundress  blushes  when 
she  brings ! 

Our  freeborn   race,   averse  to  every 

check, 
Has  tossed  the  yoke  of  Europe  from  its 

neck  ; 
From  the  green  prairie  to  the  sea-girt 

town, 
The  whole  wide  nation  turns  its  collars 

down. 


A  RHYMED  LESSON. 


61 


The  stately  neck  is  manhood's  manli- 
est part ; 
It  takes  the  life-blood  freshest  froip  the 

heart ; 
With  short,  curled  ringlets  close  around 

it  spread, 
How  light  and  strong  it  lifts  the  Grecian 

head ! 
Thine,    fair    Erechtheus    of   Minerva's 

wall ;  — 
Or  thine,  young  athlete  of  the  Louvre's 

hall, 
Smooth  as  the  pillar  flashing  in   the 

sun 
That  filled  the  arena  where  thy  wreaths 

were  won,  — 
Firm  as  the  band  that  clasps  the  antlered 

spoil, 
Strained  in  the  winding  anaconda's  coil ! 

I  spare  the  contrast ;  it  were  only 

kind 

To  be  a  little,  nay,  intensely  blind  : 
Choose  for  yourself  :  I  know  it  cuts  your 


I  know  the  points  will  sometimes  inter- 
fere ; 

I  know  that  often,  like  the  filial  John, 

Whom  sleep  surprised  with  half  his  dra- 
pery on, 

You  show  your  features  to  the  astonished 
town 

With  one  side  standing  and  the  other 
down  ;  — 

But,  0  my  friend  !  my  favorite  fellow- 
man  ! 

If  Nature  made  you  on  her  modern 
plan, 

Sooner  than  wander  with  your  windpipe 
bare,  — 

The  fruit  of  Eden  ripening  in  the  air,  — 

With  that  lean  head-stalk,  that  protrud- 
ing chin, 

Wear  standing  collars,  were  they  made 
of  tin  ! 


And  have  a  neck-cloth,  —  by  the  throat 

of  Jove  ! 
Cut  from  the  funnel  of  a  rusty  stove  ! 

The  long-drawn  lesson  narrows  to  its 

close, 

Chill,  slender,  slow,  the  dwindled  cur- 
rent flows  ; 

Tired  of  the  ripples  on  its  feeble  springs, 
Once  more  the  Muse  unfolds  her  upward 
wings. 

Land  of  my  birth,  with  this  unhal- 
lowed tongue, 

Thy  hopes,  thy  dangers,  I  perchance  had 
sung; 

But  who  shall  sing,  in  brutal  disregard 

Of  all   the  essentials  of  the   "native 

bard  "  ? 

Lake,  sea,  shore,  prairie,  forest,  moun- 
tain, fall, 

His  eye  omnivorous  must  devour  them 
all; 

The  tallest  summits  and  the  broadest 
tides 

His  foot  must  compass  with  its  giant 
strides, 

Where  Ocean  thunders,  where  Missouri 
rolls, 

And  tread  at  once  the  tropics  and  the 
poles  ; 

His  food  all  forms  of  earth,  fire,  water, 
air, 

His  home  all  space,  his  birthplace  every- 
where. 

Some  grave  compatriot,  having  seen 
perhaps 

The  pictured  page  that  goes  in  Worces- 
ter's Maps, 

And  read  in  earnest  what  was  said  in  jest, 

"  Who  drives  fat  oxen  "  —  please  to  add 
the  rest,  — 

Sprung  the  odd  notion  that  the  poet's 
dreams 


62 


ADDITIONAL   POEMS. 


Grow  in  the  ratio  of  his  hills  and  streams ; 

And  hence  insisted  that  the  aforesaid 
"bard," 

Pink  of  the  future,  —  fancy's  pattern- 
card,  — 

The  babe  of  nature  in  the  "giant  West," 

Must  be  of  course  her  biggest  and  her 
best. 

O  when  at  length  the  expected  bard 

shall  come, 
Land  of  our  pride,  to  strike  thine  echoes 

dumb, 
(And  many  a  voice  exclaims  in  prose 

and  rhyme, 
It 's  getting  late,  and  he  's  behind  his 

time,) 
When  all  thy  mountains  clap  their  hands 

in  joy, 
And  all  thy  cataracts  thunder,  "  That 's 

the  boy,"  — 
Say  if  with  him  the  reign  of  song  shall 

end, 
And  Heaven  declare  its  final  dividend  ? 

Be  calm,  dear  brother  !  whose  impas- 
sioned strain 

Comes  from  an  alley  watered  by  a  drain  ; 
The  little  Mincio,  dribbling  to  the  Po, 
Beats  all  the  epics  of  the  Hoang  Ho  ; 
If  loved  in  earnest  by  the  tuneful  maid, 
Don't  mind  their  nonsense,  —  never  be 
afraid  ! 

The  nurse  of  poets  feeds  her  winged 

brood 

By  common  firesides,  on  familiar  food  ; 
In  a  low  hamlet,  by  a  narrow  stream, 
Where  bovine  rustics  used  to  doze  and 

dream, 

She  filled  young  William's  fiery  fancy  full, 
While  old  John  Shakespeare  talked  of 

beeves  and  wool  ! 

No  Alpine  needle,  with  its  climbing 
spire, 


Brings  down  for  mortals  the  Promethean 

fire; 

If  careless  nature  have  forgot  to  frame 
An  altar  worthy  of  the  sacred  flame. 
Unblest   by  any  save  the  goatherd's 

lines, 
Mont   Blanc  rose  soaring  through  his 

"sea  of  pines"  ; 
In  vain  the  rivers  from  their  ice-caves 

flash; 
No  hymn  salutes  them  but  the  Kanz  des 

Vaches, 
Till  lazy  Coleridge,  by  the  morning's 

light, 
Gazed  for  a  moment  on  the  fields  of 

white, 
And  lo,  the  glaciers  found  at  length  a 

tongue, 
Mont  Blanc  was  vocal,  and  Chamouni 

sung ! 

Children  of  wealth  or  want,  to  each  is 

given 
One  spot  of  green,  and  all  the  blue  of 

heaven ! 
Enough,  if  these  their  outward  shows 

impart ; 
The  rest  is  thine,  —  the  scenery  of  the 

heart. 

If  passion's  hectic  in  thy  stanzas  glow, 
Thy  heart's  best  life-blood  ebbing  as 

they  flow  ; 
If  with  thy  verse  thy  strength  and  bloom 

distil, 
Drained  by  the  pulses  of  the  fevered 

thrill ; 
If  sound's  sweet  effluence  polarize  thy 

brain, 
And  thoughts  turn  crystals  in  thy  fluid 

strain, — 
Nor  rolling    ocean,   nor    the    prairie's 

bloom, 
Nor  streaming  cliffs,  nor  rayless  cavern's 

gloom, 


A   RHYMED   LESSON. 


63 


Need'st  thou,  young  poet,  to  inform  thy 

line  ; 
Thy  own  broad  signet  stamps  thy  song 

divine  ! 
Let  others  gaze  where  silvery  streams 

are  rolled, 
And  chase  the  rainbow  for  its  cup  of 

gold; 
To  thee  all  landscapes  wear  a  heavenly 

dye, 
Changed  in  the  glance  of  thy  prismatic 

eye  ; 

Nature  evoked  thee  in  sublimer  throes, 
For  thee  her  inmost  Arethusa  flows,  — 
The  mighty  mother's  living  depths  are 

stirred,  — 
Thou  art  the  starred  Osiris  of  the  herd  ! 

A  few  brief  lines  ;    they  touch  on 

solemn  chords, 

And  hearts  may  leap  to  hear  their  hon- 
est words  ; 

Yet,  ere  the  jarring  bugle-blast  is  blown, 
The  softer  lyre  shall  breathe  its  soothing 
tone. 

New  England !  proudly  may  thy 
children  claim 

Their  honored  birthright  by  its  hum- 
blest name  ! 

Cold  are  thy  skies,  but,  ever  fresh  and 
clear, 

No  rank  malaria  stains  thine  atmos- 
phere ; 

No  fungous  weeds  invade  thy  scanty 
soil, 

Scarred  by  the  ploughshares  of  unslum- 
bering  toil. 

Long  may  the  doctrines  by  thy  sages 
taught, 

Eaised  from  the  quarries  where  their 
sires  have  wrought, 

Be  like  the  granite  of  thy  rock-ribbed 
land,  — 

As  slow  to  rear,  as  obdurate  to  stand  : 


And  as  the  ice,  that  leaves  thy  crystal 

mine, 
Chills  the  fierce  alcohol  in  the  Creole's 

wine, 

So  may  the  doctrines  of  thy  sober  school 
Keep  the  hot  theories  of  thy  neighbors 

cool ! 


If  ever,  trampling  on  her  ancient  path, 

Cankered  by  treachery,  or  inflamed  by 
wrath, 

With  smooth  "  Resolves,"  or  with  dis- 
cordant cries, 

The  mad  Briareus  of  disunion  rise, 

Chiefs  of  New  England  !  by  your  sires' 
renown, 

Dash  the  red  torches  of  the  rebel  down  ! 

Flood  his  black  hearthstone  till  its 
flames  expire, 

Though  your  old  Sachem  fanned  his 
council-fire ! 

But   if   at   last  —  her  fading   cycle 

run  — 
The  tongue  must  forfeit  what  the  arm 

has  won, 
Then  rise,  wild  Ocean  !  roll  thy  surging 

shock 

Full  on  old  Plymouth's  desecrated  rock ! 
Scale  the  proud  shaft  degenerate  hands 

have  hewn, 
Where  bleeding  Valor  stained  the  flowers 

of  June ! 
Sweep  in  one  tide  her  spires  and  turrets 

down, 
And  howl  her  dirge  above  Monadnock's 

crown  ! 

List  not  the  tale  ;  the  Pilgrim's  hal- 
lowed shore, 
Though  strewn  with  weeds,  is  granite  at 

the  core  ; 

0  rather  trust  that  He  who  made  her  free 
Will  keep  her  true,  as  long  as  faith  shall 
be! 


64 


ADDITIONAL  POEMS. 


Farewell !  yet  lingering  through  the 

destined  hour, 

Leave,  sweet  Enchantress,  one  memorial 
flower ! 

An  Angel,  floating  o'er  the  waste  of 

snow 

That  clad  our  Western  desert,  long  ago, 
(The  same  fair  spirit,  who,  unseen  by  day, 
Shone  as  a  star  along  the  Mayflower's 

way,) 
Sent,  the  first  herald  of  the  Heavenly 

plan, 
To  choose  on  earth  a  resting-place  for 

man,  — 
Tired  with  his  flight  along  the  unvaried 

field, 
Turned  to  soar  upwards,  when  his  glance 

revealed 
A  calm,  bright  bay,  enclosed  in  rocky 

bounds, 
And  at  its  entrance  stood  three  sister 

mounds. 

The  Angel  spake:    "This  threefold 

hill  shall  be 

The  home  of  Arts,  the  nurse  of  Liberty  ! 
One  stately  summit  from  its  shaft  shall 

pour 
Its  deep-red  blaze  along  the  darkened 

shore ; 
Emblem  of  thoughts,  that,  kindling  far 

and  wide, 
In   danger's  night  shall  be  a  nation's 

guide. 

One  swelling  crest  thecitadel  shall  crown, 
Its  slanted  bastions  black  with  battle's 

frown, 
And  bid  the  sons  that  tread  its  scowling 

heights 
Bare  their  strong  arms  for  man  and  all 

his  rights  ! 

One  silent  steep  along  the  northern  wave 
Shall  hold  the  patriarch's  and  the  hero's 

grave; 


When  fades  the  torch,  when  o'er  the 

peaceful  scene 
The  embattled  fortress  smiles  in  living 

green, 
The  cross  of  Faith,  the  anchor  staff  of 

Hope, 

Shall  stand  eternal  on  its  grassy  slope  ; 
There  through  all   time   shall  faithful 

Memory  tell, 
'  Here  Virtue  toiled,  and  Patriot  Valor 


Thy  free,  proud  fathers  slumber  at  thy 

side  ; 
Live  as  they  lived,  or  perish  as  they 

died ! ' " 

AN  AFTER-DINNER  POEM.l 

(TERPSICHORE.) 

IN  narrowest  girdle,  0  reluctant  Muse, 
In  closest  frock  and  Cinderella  shoes, 
Bound  to  the  foot-lights  for  thy  brief 

display, 
One  zephyr  step,  and  then  dissolve  away  ! 


Short  is  the  space  that  gods  and  men 

can  spare 
To  Song's  twin  brother  when  she  is  not 

there. 

Let  others  water  every  lusty  line, 
As   Homer's   heroes   did   their   purple 

wine  ; 
Pierian  revellers  !     Know  in  strains  like 

these 
The    native    juice,    the    real    honest 

squeeze,  — 
Strains  that,  diluted  to  the  twentieth 

power, 
In  yon  grave  temple  might  have  filled 

an  hour. 


1  Read  at  the  Annual  Dinner  of  the  *  B  K 
Society,  at  Cambridge,  August  24,  1843. 


AN  AFTER-DINNER  POEM. 


65 


Small  room  for  Fancy's  many-cborded 

lyre, 
For  Wit's  bright  rockets  with  their  trains 

of  fire, 

For  Pathos,  struggling  vainly  to  surprise 
The  iron  tutor's  tear-denying  eyes,       ^ 
For  Mirth,  whose  finger  with  delusive 

wile 
Turns  the  grim  key  of  many  a  rusty 

smile, 

For  Satire,  emptying  his  corrosive  flood 
On  hissing  Folly's  gas-exhaling  brood, 
The  pun,  the  fun,  the  moral  and  the 

joke, 
The    hit,    the    thrust,    the    pugilistic 

poke,  — 

Small  space  for  these,  so  pressed  by  nig- 
gard Time, 
Like  that  false  matron,  known  to  nursery 

rhyme,  — 

Insidious  Morey,  — scarce  her  tale  begun, 
Ere  listening  infants   weep   the  story 

done. 

0  had  we  room  to  rip  the  mighty  bags 
That  Time,  the  harlequin,  has  stuffed 

with  rags  ! 
Grant  us  one  moment  to  unloose  the 

strings, 
While  the  old  graybeard  shuts  his  leather 

wings. 

But  what  a  heap  of  motley  trash  appears 
Crammed  in  the  bundles  of  successive 

years  ! 

As  the  lost  rustic  on  some  festal  day 
Stares  through  the  concourse  in  its  vast 

array,  — 
Where  in  one  cake  a  throng  of  faces 

runs, 
All    stuck    together    like  a    sheet    of 

buns,  — 
And  throws  the  bait  of  some  unheeded 

name, 
Or  shoots  a  wink  with  most  uncertain 

aim, 


So  roams  my  vision,  wandering  over  all, 
And  strives  to  choose,  but  knows  not 
where  to  fall. 

Skins  of  flayed  authors,  —  husks  of  dead 
reviews,  — 

The  turn-coat's  clothes,  —  the  office- 
seeker's  shoes,  — 

Scraps  from  cold  feasts,  where  conversa- 
tion runs 

Through  mouldy  toasts  to  oxidated  puns, 

And  grating  songs  a  listening  crowd  en- 
dures, 

Rasped  from  the  throats  of  bellowing 
amateurs  ;  — 

Sermons,  whose  writers  played  such  dan- 
gerous tricks 

Their  own  heresiarchs  called  them  here- 
tics 

(Strange  that  one  term  such  distant  poles 
should  link, 

The  Priestleyan's  copper  and  the  Pusey- 
au's  zinc)  ;  — 

Poems  that  shuffle  with  superfluous  legs 

A  blindfold  minuet  over  addled  eggs, 

Where  all  the  syllables  that  end  in  ed, 

Like  old  dragoons,  have  cuts  across  the 
head  ;  — 

Essays  so  dark  Champollion  might  de- 
spair 

To  guess  what  mummy  of  a  thought  was 
there, 

Where  our  poor  English,  striped  with  for- 
eign phrase, 

Looks  like  a  Zebra  in  a  parson's  chaise  ;  — 

Lectures  that  cut  our  dinners  down  to 
roots, 

Or  prove  (by  monkeys)  men  should  stick 
to  fruits ; 

Delusive  error,  —  as  at  trifling  charge 

Professor  Gripes  will  certify  at  large  ;  — 

Mesmeric  pamphlets,  which  to  facts  ap- 
peal, 

Each  fact  as  slippery  as  a  fresh-caught 
eel ;  — 


66 


ADDITIONAL   POEMS. 


And  figured  heads,  whose  hieroglyphs 
invite 

To  wandering  knaves  that  discount  fools 
at  sight ;  — 

Such  things  as  these,  with  heaps  of  un- 
paid bills, 

And  candy  puffs  and  homoeopathic  pills, 

And  ancient  bell-crowns  with  contracted 
rim, 

And  bonnets  hideous  with  expanded 
brim, 

And  coats  whose  memory  turns  the  sar- 
tor pale, 

Their  sequels  tapering  like  a  lizard's 
tail ;  — 

How  might  we  spread  them  to  the  smil- 
ing day, 

And  toss  them,  fluttering  like  the  new- 
mown  hay, 

To  laughter's  light  or  sorrow's  pitying 
shower, 

Were  these  brief  minutes  lengthened  to 
an  hour. 

The  narrow  moments  fit  like  Sunday 
shoes, 

How  vast  the  heap,  how  quickly  must 
we  choose  ; 

A  few  small  scraps  from  out  his  moun- 
tain mass 

"We  snatch  in  haste,  and  let  the  vagrant 
pass. 

This  shrunken  CRUST  that  Cerberus  could 
not  bite, 

Stamped  (in  one  corner)  "Pickwick  copy- 
right, " 

Kneaded  by  youngsters,  raised  by  flat- 
tery's yeast, 

Was  once  a  loaf,  and  helped  to  make  a 
feast. 

He  for  whose  sake  the  glittering  show 
appears 

Has  sown  the  world  with  laughter  and 
with  tears, 


And  they  whose  welcome  wets  the  bump- 
er's brim 

Have  wit  and  wisdom,  —  for  they  all 
quote  Mm. 

So,  many  a  tongue  the  evening  hour  pro- 
longs 

With  spangled  speeches,  —  let  alone  the 
songs,  — 

Statesmen  grow  merry,  lean  attorneys 
laugh, 

And  weak  teetotals  warm  to  half  and 
half, 

And  beardless  Tullys,  new  to  festive 
scenes, 

Cut  their  first  crop  of  youth's  precocious 
greens, 

And  wits  stand  ready  for  impromptu 
claps, 

With  loaded  barrels  and  percussion  caps, 

And  Pathos,  cantering  through  the  mi- 
nor keys, 

Waves  all  her  onions  to  the  trembling 
breeze  ; 

While  the  great  Feasted  views  with  si- 
lent glee 

His  scattered  limbs  in  Yankee  fricassee. 


Sweet  is  the  scene  where  genial  friend- 
ship plays 

The  pleasing  game  of  interchanging 
praise ; 

Self-love,  grimalkin  of  the  human  heart, 

Is  ever  pliant  to  the  master's  art ; 

Soothed  with  a  word,  she  peacefully 
withdraws 

And  sheathes  in  velvet  her  obnoxious 
claws, 

And  thrills  the  hand  that  smooths  her 
glossy  fur 

With  the  light  tremor  of  her  grateful 
pur. 


But  what  sad  music  fills  the  quiet  hall, 
If  on  her  back  a  feline  rival  fall ; 


AN   AFTER-DINNER   POEM. 


67 


And  0,  what  noises  shake  the  tranquil 

house, 
If  old  Self-interest  cheats  her  of  a  mouse ! 

Thou,  0  my  country,  hast  thy  foolish 

ways, 

Too  apt  to  pur  at  every  stranger's  praise ; 
But,  if  the  stranger  touch  thy  modes  or 

laws, 
Off  goes  the  velvet  and  out  come  the 

claws  ! 
And  thou,  Illustrious !  but  too  poorly 

paid 
In  toasts  from  Pickwick  for  thy  great 

crusade, 
Though,  while  the  echoes  labored  with 

thy  name, 

The  public  trap  denied  thy  little  game, 
Let  other  lips  our  jealous  laws  revile,  — 
The  marble  Talfourd  or  the  rude  Car- 

lyle,  - 

But  on  thy  lids,  which  Heaven  forbids 
to  close 

Where'er  the  light  of  kindly  nature  glows, 

Let  not  the  dollars  that  a  churl  denies 

Weigh  like  the  shillings  on  a  dead  man's 
eyes  ! 

Or,  if  thou  wilt,  be  more  discreetly  blind, 

Nor  ask  to  see  all  wide  extremes  com- 
bined. 

Not  in  our  wastes  the  dainty  blossoms 
smile, 

That  crowd  the  gardens  of  thy  scantyisle. 

There  white-cheeked  Luxury  weaves  a 
thousand  charms  ;  — 

Here  sun-browned  Labor  swings  his 
naked  arms. 

Long  are  the  furrows  he  must  trace  be- 
tween 

The  ocean's  azure  and  the  prairie's  green ; 

Full  many  a  blank  his  destined  realm 
displays, 

Yet  see  the  promise  of  his  riper  days : 

Far  through  yon  depths  the  panting 
engine  moves, 


His  chariots  ringing  in  their  steel-shod 
grooves ; 

And  Erie's  naiad  flings  her  diamond  wave 

O'er  the  wild  sea-nymph  in  her  distant 
cave  ! 

While  tasks  like  these  employ  his  anx- 
ious hours, 

What  if  his  cornfields  are  not  edged 
with  flowers? 

Though  bright  as  silver  the  meridian 
beams 

Shine  through  the  crystal  of  thine  Eng- 
lish streams, 

Turbid  and  dark  the  mighty  wave  is 
whirled 

That  drains  our  Andes  and  divides  a 
world ! 

But  lo !  a  PARCHMENT  !  Surely  it  would 

seem 
The  sculptured  impress  speaks  of  power 

supreme ; 
Some  grave  design  the  solemn  page  must 

claim 
That  shows  so  broadly  an  emblazoned 

name  ; 
A  sovereign's  promise !    Look,  the  lines 

afford 
All  Honor  gives  when  Caution  asks  his 

word : 

There  sacred  Faith  has  laid  her  snow- 
white  hands, 

And  awful  Justice  knit  her  iron  bands ; 
Yet  every  leaf  is  stained  with  treachery's 

dye, 

And  every  letter  crusted  with  a  lie. 
Alas !  no  treason  has  degraded  yet 
The  Arab's  salt,  the  Indian's  calumet ; 
A  simple  rite,  that  bears  the  wanderer's 

pledge, 
Blunts  the  keen  shaft  and  turns  the 


While  jockeying  senates  stop  to  sign 

and  seal, 
And  freeborn  statesmen  legislate  to  steal. 


68 


ADDITIONAL  POEMS. 


Kise,  Europe,  tottering  with  thine  Atlas 

load, 
Turn  thy  proud  eye  to  Freedom's  blesl 

abode, 
And  round  her  forehead,  wreathed  with 

heavenly  flame, 
Bind  the  dark  garland  of  her  daughter's 

shame ! 
Ye  ocean  clouds,  that  wrap  the  angry 

blast, 
Coil  her  stained  ensign  round  its  haughty 

mast, 

Or  tear  the  fold  that  wears  so  foul  a  scar, 
And  drive  a  bolt  through  every  black- 
ened star ! 


Once  more, — once  only,  — we  must  stop 

so  soon,  — 

What  have  we  here  ?    A  GERMAN-SIL- 
VER SPOON  ; 

A  cheap  utensil,  which  we  often  see 
Used  by  the  dabblers  in  aesthetic  tea, 
Of  slender  fabric,  somewhat  light  and 

thin, 
Made  of  mixed  metal,  chiefly  lead  and 

tin; 
The  bowl  is  shallow,  and  the  handle 

small, 
Marked  in  large  letters  with  the  name 

JEAN  PAUL. 
Small  as  it  is,  its  powers  are  passing 

strange, 
For  all  Avho  use  it  show  a  wondrous 

change ; 
And  first,  a  fact  to  make  the  barbers 

stare, 

It  beats  Macassar  for  the  growth  of  hair ; 
See  those  small  youngsters  whose  ex- 
pansive ears 
Maternal  kindness  grazed  with  frequent 

shears; 
Each  bristling  crop   a   dangling   mass 

becomes, 
And  all   the  spooaies   turn   to  Absa- 

loms ! 


Nor  this  alone  its  magic  power  displays, 
It  alters  strangely  all  their  works  and 
ways; 

With  uncouth  words  they  tire    their 
tender  lungs, 

The  same  bald  phrases  on  their  hun- 
dred tongues ; 

"Ever"  "The  Ages"  in  their  page  ap- 
pear, 

"Alway"   the   bedlamite    is    called    a 
"Seer"; 

On  every  leaf  the  "earnest"  sage  may 
scan, 

Portentous  bore!  their  "many-sided" 
man,  — 

A  weak   eclectic,   groping   vague   and 
dim, 

Whose  every  angle    is   a   half-starved 
whim, 

Blind  as  a  mole  and  curious  as  a  lynx, 

Who  rides  a  beetle,  which  he  calls  a 
"Sphinx." 

And  0  what  questions  asked  in  club- 
foot  rhyme 

Of  Earth  the  tongueless  and  the  deaf- 
mute  Time ! 

Here  babbling  "Insight"  shouts  in  Na- 
ture's ears 

His  last  conundrum  on  the  orbs  and 
spheres ; 

There  Self-inspection  sucks    its    little 
thumb, 

With  "Whence  am  I?"  and  "Where- 
fore did  I  come  ? " 

Deluded  infants !  will  they  ever  know 

Some  doubts  must  darken  o'er  the  world 
below, 

Though  all  the  Platos  of  the  nursery 
trail 

Their  "  clouds  of  glory  "  at  the  go-cart's 
tail? 

0  might  these  couplets  their  attention, 
claim, 

That  gain  their  author  the  Philistine's 
name ; 


AN  AFTER-DINNER  POEM. 


69 


(A  stubborn  race,  that,  spurning  foreign 

law, 
Was  much  belabored  with  an  ass's  jaw  !) 


Melodious  Laura!  From  the  sad  re- 
treats 

That  hold  thee,  smothered  with  excess 
of  sweets, 

Shade  of  a  shadow,  spectre  of  a  dream, 

Glance  thy  wan  eye  across  the  Stygian 
stream  ! 

The  slip-shod  dreamer  treads  thy  fra- 
grant halls, 

The  sophist's  cobwebs  hang  thy  roseate 
walls, 

And  o'er  the  crotchets  of  thy  jingling 
tunes 

The  bard  of  mystery  scrawls  his  crooked 
"runes." 

Yes,  thou  art  gone,  with  all  the  tuneful 
hordes 

That  candied  thoughts  in  amber-colored 
words, 

And  in  the  precincts  of  thy  late  abodes 

The  clattering  verse-wright  hammers 
Orphic  odes. 

Thou,  soft  as  zephyr,  wast  content  to 

fly 


On  the  gilt  pinions  of  a  balmy  sigh ; 
He,  vast  as   Phoebus   on   his  burning 

wheels, 
Would  stride  through  ether  at  Orion's 

heels  ; 

Thy  emblem,  Laura,  was  a  perfume-jar, 
And  thine,  young  Orpheus,  is  a  pewter 

star; 
The  balance  trembles,  —  be  its  verdict 

told 
When  the  new  jargon  slumbers  with  the 

old! 


Cease,  playful  goddess !  From  thine  airy 

bound 

Drop  like  a  feather  softly  to  the  ground ; 
This  light  bolero  grows  a  ticklish  dance, 
And  there  is  mischief  in  thy  kindling 

glance. 
To-morrow  bids    thee,   with  rebuking 

frown, 
Change  thy  gauze  tunic  for  a  home-made 

gown, 

Too  blest  by  fortune,  if  the  passing  day 
Adorn  thy  bosom  with  its  frail  bouquet, 
But  0  still  happier  if  the  next  forgets 
Thy  daring  steps  and  dangerous  pirou- 
ettes ! 


MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS. 

FROM   "THE  COLLEGIAN,"  1830,   ILLUSTRATED  ANNUALS,   ETC. 

Nescit  vox  missa  reverti.  —  HOKAT.  Ars  Poetica. 
Ab  iis  quse  non  adjuvant  quam  mollissime  oportet  pedem  referre.  —  QCFINTILLLN,  L.  VI.  C.  4. 


THE  MEETING  OF  THE  DRYADS.l 

IT  was  not  many  centuries  since, 
When,  gathered  on  the  moonlit  green, 

Beneath  the  Tree  of  Liberty, 
A  ring  of  weeping  sprites  was  seen. 

The  freshman's  lamp  had  long  been  dim, 
The  voice  of  busy  day  was  mute, 

And  tortured  Melody  had  ceased 
Her  sufferings  on  the  evening  flute. 

They  met  not  as  they  once  had  met, 
To  laugh  o'er  many  a  jocund  tale  : 

But  every  pulse  was  beating  low, 
And  every  cheek  was  cold  and  pale. 

There  rose  a  fair  but  faded  one, 

Who  oft  had  cheered  them  with  her 
song; 

She  waved  a  mutilated  arm, 
And  silence  held  the  listening  throng. 

"Sweet  friends,"  the  gentle  nymph  be- 
gan, 

"From  opening  bud  to  withering  leaf, 
One  common  lot  has  bound  us  all, 

In  every  change  of  joy  and  grief. 

1  Written  after  a  general  pruning  of  the  trees 
around  Harvard  College. 


"While  all  around  has  felt  decay,         » 
We  rose  in  ever-living  prime, 

With  broader  shade  and  fresher  green, 
Beneath  the  crumbling  step  of  Time. 

"When  often  by  our  feet  has  past 
Some  biped,  Nature's  walking  whim, 

Say,  have  we  trimmed  one  awkward 

shape, 
Or  lopped  away  one  crooked  limb  ? 

"Go  on,  fair  Science;  soon  to  thee 
Shall  Nature  yield  her  idle  boast ; 

Her  vulgar  fingers  formed  a  tree, 
But  thou  hast  trained  it  to  a  post. 

"Go,  paint  the  birch's  silver  rind, 
And  quilt  the  peach  with  softer  down ; 

Up  with  the  willow's  trailing  threads, 
Off  with  the  sunflower's  radiant  crown  I 

"Go,  plant  the  lily  on  the  shore, 
And  set  the  rose  among  the  waves, 

And  bid  the  tropic  bud  unbind 
Its  silken  zone  in  arctic  caves ; 

"  Bring  bellows  for  the  panting  winds, 
Hang  up  a  lantern  by  the  moon, 

And  give  the  nightingale  a  fife, 
And  lend  the  eagle  a  balloon  ! 


72 


MISCELLANEOUS   POEMS. 


"  I  cannot  smile,  —  the  tide  of  scorn, 
That  rolled  through  every  bleeding 

vein, 

Comes  kindling  fiercer  as  it  flows 
Back  to  its  burning  source  again. 

• 
"Again  in  every  quivering  leaf 

That  moment's  agony  I  feel, 
When  limbs,  that  spurned  the  northern 

blast, 
Shrunk  from  the  sacrilegious  steeL 

"A  curse  upon  the  wretch  who  dared 
To  crop  us  with  his  felon  saw ! 

May  every  fruit  his  lip  shall  taste 
Lie  like  a  bullet  in  his  maw. 

"In  every  julep  that  he  drinks, 
May  gout,  and  bile,  and  headache  be ; 

And  when  he  strives  to  calm  his  pain, 
May  colic  mingle  with  his  tea. 

"May  nightshade  cluster  round  his  path, 
And    thistles    shoot,   and    brambles 
cling ; 

May  blistering  ivy  scorch  his  veins, 
And  dogwood  burn,  and  nettles  sting. 

"On  him  may  never  shadow  fall, 
When  fever  racks  his  throbbing  brow, 

And  his  last  shilling  buy  a  rope 

To  hang  him  on  my  highest  bough  !" 

She  spoke  ;  —  the  morning's  herald  beam 
Sprang  from  the  bosom  of  the  sea, 

And  every  mangled  sprite  returned 
In  sadness  to  her  wounded  tree.1 


THE   MYSTERIOUS  VISITOR. 

THERE  was  a  sound  of  hurrying  feet, 
A  tramp  on  echoing  stairs, 

1  A  little  poem,  on  a  similar  occasion,  may 
be  found  in  the  works  of  Swift,  from  which, 
perhaps,  the  idea  was  borrowed-,  although  I 
was  as  much  surprised  as  amused  to  meet  with 
it  some  time  after  writing  the  preceding  lines. 


There  was  a  rush  along  the  aisles,  — 
It  was  the  hour  of  prayers. 

And  on,  like  Ocean's  midnight  wave, 

The  current  rolled  along, 
When,  suddenly,  a  stranger  form 

Was  seen  amidst  the  throng. 

He  was  a  dark  and  swarthy  man, 

That  uninvited  guest ; 
A  faded  coat  of  bottle-green 

Was  buttoned  round  his  breast. 

There  was  not  one  among  them  all 
Could  say  from  whence  he  came  ; 

Nor  beardless  boy,  nor  ancient  man, 
Could  tell  that  stranger's  name. 

All  silent  as  the  sheeted  dead, 
In  spite  of  sneer  and  frown, 

Fast  by  a  gray-haired  senior's  side 
He  sat  him  boldly  down. 

There  was  a  look  of  horror  flashed 

From  out  the  tutor's  eyes  ; 
When  all  around  him  rose  to  pray, 

The  stranger  did  not  rise  ! 

A  murmur  broke  along  the  crowd, 

The  prayer  was  at  an  end ; 
With  ringing  heels  and  measured  tread, 

A  hundred  forms  descend. 

Through   sounding  aisle,   o'er   grating 
stair, 

The  long  procession  poured, 
Till  all  were  gathered  on  the  seats 

Around  the  Commons  board. 

That  fearful  stranger  !  down  he  sat, 

Unasked,  yet  undismayed ; 
And  on  his  lip  a  rising  smile 

Of  scorn  or  pleasure  played. 

le  took  his  hat  and  hung  it  up, 

With  slow  but  earnest  air ; 
le  stripped  his  coat  from  off  his  back, 

And  placed  it  on  a  chair. 


THE  TOADSTOOL. 


73 


Then  from  his  nearest  neighbor's  side 

A  kuife  and  plate  he  drew ; 
And,  reaching  out  his  hand  again, 

He  took  his  teacup  too. 

How  fled  the  sugar  from  the  bowl ! 

How  sunk  the  azure  cream  ! 
They  vanished  like  the  shapes  that  float 

Upon  a  summer's  dream. 

A  long,  long  draught,  — an  outstretched 
hand,  — 

And  crackers,  toast,  and  tea, 
They  faded  from  the  stranger's  touch, 

Like  dew  upon  the  sea. 

Then  clouds  were  dark  on  many  a  brow, 

Fear  sat  upon  their  souls, 
And,  in  a  bitter  agony, 

They  clasped  their  buttered  rolls. 

A     whisper     trembled     through     the 
crowd,  — 

Who  could  the  stranger  be  ? 
And  some  were  silent,  for  they  thought 

A  cannibal  was  he. 

What  if  the  creature  should  arise,  — 
For  he  was  stout  and  tall,  — 

And  swallow  down  a  sophomore, 
Coat,  crow's-foot,  cap,  and  all ! 

All  sullenly  the  stranger  rose ; 

They  sat  in  mute  despair ; 
He  took  his  hat  from  off"  the  peg, 

His  coat  from  off  the  chair. 

Four  freshmen  fainted  on  the  seat, 
Six  swooned  upon  the  floor ; 

Yet  on  the  fearful  being  passed, 
And  shut  the  chapel  door. 

There  is  full  many  a  starving  man, 

That  walks  in  bottle  green, 
But  never  more  that  hungry  one 

In  Commons-hall  was  seen. 


Yet  often  at  the  sunset  hour, 
When  tolls  the  evening  bell, 

The  freshman  lingers  on  the 
That  frightful  tale  to  tell. 


THE  TOADSTOOL. 

THERE  's  a  thing  that  grows  by  the 
fainting  flower, 

And  springs  in  the  shade  of  the  lady's 
bower ; 

The  lily  shrinks,  and  the  rose  turns  pale, 

When  they  feel  its  breath  in  the  sum- 
mer gale, 

And  the  tulip  curls  its  leaves  in  pride, 

And  the  blue-eyed  violet  starts  aside ; 

But  the  lily  may  flaunt,  and  the  tulip 
stare, 

For  what  does  the  honest  toadstool  care  ? 

She  does  not  glow  in  a  painted  vest, 
And  she  never  blooms  on  the  maiden's 

breast ; 

But  she  comes,  as  the  saintly  sisters  do, 
In  a  modest  suit  of  a  Quaker  hue. 
And,  when  the  stars  in  the  evening  skies 
Are  weeping  dew  from  their  gentle  eyes, 
The  toad  comes  out  from  his  hermit  cell, 
The  tale  of  his  faithful  love  to  tell. 

0  there  is  light  in  her  lover's  glance, 
That  flies  to  her  heart  like  a  silver  lance ; 
His  breeches  are  made  of  spotted  skin, 
His  jacket  is  tight,  and  his  pumps  are 

thin ; 
In  a  cloudless  night  you  may  hear  his 

song, 

As  its  pensive  melody  floats  along, 
And,  if  you  will  look  by  the  moonlight 

fair, 
The  trembling  form  of  the  toad  is  there. 

And  he  twines  his  arms  round  her  slen- 
der stem, 
In  the  shade  of  her  velvet  diadem ; 


74 


MISCELLANEOUS   POEMS. 


But  she  turns  away  in  her  maiden  shame, 
And  will  not  breathe  on  the  kindling 

flame; 

He  sings  at  her  feet  through  the  live- 
long night, 
And  creeps  to  his  cave  at  the  break  of 

light ; 

And  whenever  he  comes  to  the  air  above, 
His  throat  is  swelling  with  baffled  love. 


THE  SPECTRE  PIG. 

A   BALLAD. 

IT  was  the  stalwart  butcher  man, 
That  knit  his  swarthy  brow, 

And  said  the  gentle  Pig  must  die, 
And  sealed  it  with  a  vow. 

And  oh  !  it  was  the  gentle  Pig 
Lay  stretched  upon  the  ground, 

And  ah  !  it  was  the  cruel  knife 
His  little  heart  that  found. 

They  took  him  then,  those  wicked  men, 
They  trailed  him  all  along  ; 

They  put  a  stick  between  his  lips, 
And  through  his  heels  a  thong  ; 

And  round  and  round  an  oaken  beam 

A  hempen  cord  they  flung, 
And,  like  a  mighty  pendulum, 

All  solemnly  he  swung  ! 

Now  say  thy  prayers,  thou  sinful  man, 
And  think  what  thou  hast  done, 

And  read  thy  catechism  well, 
Thou  bloody-minded  one  ; 

For  if  his  sprite  should  walk  by  night, 

It  better  were  for  thee, 
That    thou    wert    mouldering    in    the 
ground, 

Or  bleaching  in  the  sea. 


It  was  the  savage  butcher  then, 

That  made  a  mock  of  sin, 
And  swore  a  very  wicked  oath, 

He  did  not  care  a  pin. 

It  was  the  butcher's  youngest  son,  — 
His  voice  was  broke  with  sighs, 

And  with  his  pocket-handkerchief 
He  wiped  his  little  eyes  ; 

All  young  and  ignorant  was  he, 

But  innocent  and  mild, 
And,  in  his  soft  simplicity, 

Out  spoke  the  tender  child : — 

"  0  father,  father,  list  to  me  ; 

The  Pig  is  deadly  sick, 
And  men  have  hung  him  by  his  heels, 

And  fed  him  with  a  stick." 

It  was  the  bloody  butcher  then, 
That  laughed  as  he  would  die, 

Yet  did  he  soothe  the  sorrowing  child, 
And  bid  him  not  to  cry  ;  — 

"0  Nathan,  Nathan,  what 's  a  Pig, 
That  thou  shouldst  weep  and  wail  ? 

Come,  bear  thee  like  a  butcher's  child, 
And  thou  shalt  have  his  tail ! " 

It  was  the  butcher's  daughter  then, 

So  slender  and  so  fair, 
That  sobbed  as  if  her  heart  would  break, 

And  tore  her  yellow  hair ; 

And  thus  she  spoke  in  thrilling  tone,  — 
Fast  fell  the  tear-drops  big  ;  — 

"Ah  !  woe  is  me !     Alas  !  Alas  ! 
The  Pig  !  The  Pig  !  The  Pig  ! " 

Then  did  her  wicked  father's  lips 

Make  merry  with  her  woe, 
And  call  her  many  a  naughty  name, 

Because  she  whimpered  so. 


TO  A  CAGED  LION. 


75 


Ye  need  not  weep,  ye  gentle  ones, 
In  vain  your  tears  are  shed, 

Ye  cannot  wash  his  crimson  hand, 
Ye  cannot  soothe  the  dead. 

The  bright  sun  folded  on  his  breast 

His  robes  of  rosy  flame, 
And  softly  over  all  the  west 

The  shades  of  evening  came 

He  slept,  and  troops  of  murdered  Pigs 
Were  busy  with  his  dreams  ; 

Loud  rang  their  wild,  unearthly  shrieks, 
Wide  yawned  their  mortal  seams. 

The  clock  struck  twelve  ;  the  Dead  hath 
heard  ; 

He  opened  both  his  eyes, 
And  sullenly  he  shook  his  tail 

To  lash  the  feeding  flies. 

One  quiver  of  the  hempen  cord,  — 
One  struggle  and  one  bound,  — 

With  stiffened  limb  and  leaden  eye, 
The  Pig  was  on  the  ground  ! 

And  straight  towards  the  sleeper's  house 
His  fearful  way  he  wended ; 

And  hooting  owl,  and  hovering  bat, 
On  midnight  wing  attended. 

Back  flew  the  bolt,  up  rose  the  latch, 

And  open  swung  the  door, 
And  little  mincing  feet  were  heard 

Pat,  pat  along  the  floor. 

Two  hoofs  upon  the  sanded  floor, 

And  two  upon  the  bed  ; 
And  they  are  breathing  side  by  side, 

The  living  and  the  dead  ! 

"Now  wake,  now  wake,  thou  butcher 
man  ! 

What  makes  thy  cheek  so  pale  ? 
Take  hold  !  take  hold  !  thou  dost  not  fear 

To  clasp  a  spectre's  tail  ?" 


Untwisted  every  winding  coil ; 

The  shuddering  wretch  took  hold, 
All  like  an  icicle  it  seemed, 

So  tapering  and  so  cold. 

"  Thou  com'st  with  me,  thou  butcher 
man  ! "  — 

He  strives  to  loose  his  grasp, 
But,  faster  than  the  clinging  vine, 

Those  twining  spirals  clasp. 

And  open,  open  swung  the  door, 

And,  fleeter  than  the  wind, 
The  shadowy  spectre  swept  before, 

The  butcher  trailed  behind. 

Fast  fled  the  darkness  of  the  night, 
And  morn  rose  faint  and  dim  ; 

They  called  full  loud,  they  knocked  full 

long, 
They  did  not  waken  him. 

Straight,  straight  towards  that  oaken 
beam, 

A  trampled  pathway  ran  ; 
A  ghastly  shape  was  swinging  there,  — 

It  was  the  butcher  man. 


TO  A  CAGED  LION. 

POOR  conquered  monarch  !  though  that 

haughty  glance 
Still  speaks  thy  courage  unsubdued 

by  time, 

And  in  the  grandeur  of  thy  sullen  tread 
Lives  the  proud  spirit  of  thy  burning 

clime  ;  — 
Fettered  by  things  that  shudder  at  thy 

roar, 
Torn  from  thy  pathless  wilds  to  pace 

this  narrow  floor ! 

Thou  wast  the  victor,  and  all  nature 

shrunk 

Before  the  thunders  of  thine  awfui 
wrath ; 


76 


MISCELLANEOUS   POEMS. 


The    steel-armed    hunter  viewed    thee 

from  afar, 
Fearless  and  trackless  in  thy  lonely 

path  ! 
The  famished  tiger  closed  his  flaming 

eye, 
And  crouched  and  panted  as  thy  step 

went  by  ! 

Thou  art  the  vanquished,  and  insulting 

man 
Bars  thy  broad  bosom  as  a  sparrow's 

wing ; 
His  nerveless  arms  thine  iron  sinews 

bind, 
And  lead  in  chains  the  desert's  fallen 

king; 
Are  these  the  beings  that  have  dared  to 

twine 
Their  feeble  threads  around  those  limbs 

of  thine  ? 

So  must  it  be  ;  the  weaker,  wiser  race, 
That  wields  the  tempest  and  that  rides 

the  sea, 

Even  in  the  stillness  of  thy  solitude 
Must  teach  the  lesson  of  its  power  to 

thee ; 
And  thou,  the  terror  of  the  trembling 

wild, 

Must  bow  thy  savage  strength,  the  mock- 
ery of  a  child  ! 

THE  STAR  AND  THE  WATER-LILY. 

THE  sun  stepped  down  from  his  golden 
throne, 

And  lay  in  the  silent  sea, 
And  the  Lily  had  folded  her  satin  leaves, 

For  a  sleepy  thing  was  she  ; 
What  is  the  Lily  dreaming  of  ? 

Why  crisp  the  waters  blue  ? 
See,  see,  she  is  lifting  her  varnished  lid  ! 

Her    white     leaves     are     glistening 
through  ! 


The  Eose  is  cooling  his  burning  cheek 

In  the  lap  of  the  breathless  tide  ;  — 
The  Lily  hath  sisters  fresh  and  fair, 

That  would  lie  by  the  Rose's  side  ; 
He  would  love  her  better  than  all  the  rest, 

And  he  would  be  fond  and  true  ;  — 
But  the  Lily  unfolded  her  weary  lids, 

And  looked  at  the  sky  so  blue. 

Kemember,  remember,  thou  silly  one, 

How  fast  will  thy  summer  glide, 
And  wilt  thou  wither  a  virgin  pale, 

Or  flourish  a  blooming  bride  ? 
"  0  the  Rose  is  old,  and  thorny,  and  cold, 

And  he  lives  on  earth,"  said  she  ; 
"  But  the  Star  is  fair  and  he  lives  in 
the  air, 

And  he  shall  my  bridegroom  be. " 

But  what  if  the  stormy  cloud  should 

come, 

And  ruffle  the  silver  sea  ? 
Would  he  turn  his  eye  from  the  distant 

sky, 

To  smile  on  a  thing  like  thee  ? 
0  no,  fair  Lily,  he  will  not  send 

One  ray  from  his  far-off  throne  ; 
The  winds  shall  blow  and  the  waves 

shall  flow, 
And  thou  wilt  be  left  alone. 

There  is  not  a  leaf  on  the  mountain-top 

Nor  a  drop  of  evening  dew, 
Nor  a  golden  sand  on  the   sparkling 

shore, 

Nor  a  pearl  in  the  waters  blue, 
That  he  has  not  cheered  with  his  fickle 

smile, 
And    wanned    with     his     faithless 

beam,  — 

And  will  he  be  true  to  a  pallid  flower, 
That  floats  on  the  quiet  stream  ? 

Alas  for  the  Lily  !  she  would  not  head, 
But  turned  to  the  skies  afar, 


ILLUSTRATION   OF   A  PICTURE.  —  A  ROMAN  AQUEDUCT.         77 


And  bared  her  breast  to  the  trembling 

ray 

That  shot  from  the  rising  star  ; 
The  cloud  came  over  the  darkened  sky, 

And  over  the  waters  wide  : 
She  looked  in  vain  through  the  beating 

rain, 
And  sank  in  the  stormy  tide. 


ILLUSTRATION  OF  A  PICTURE. 

"A   SPANISH   GIRL   IN   REVERIE." 

SHE  twirled  the  string  of  golden  beads, 

That  round  her  neck  was  hung,  — 
My  grandsire's  gift  ;  the  good  old  man 

Loved  girls  when  he  was  young  ; 
And,  bending  lightly  o'er  the  cord, 

And  turning  half  away, 
"With  something  like  a  youthful  sigh, 

Thus  spoke  the  maiden  gray  :  — 

"  "Well,  one  may  trail  her  silken  robe, 

And  bind  her  locks  with  pearls, 
And  one  may  wreathe  the  woodland  rose 

Among  her  floating  curls  ; 
And  one  may  tread  the  dewy  grass, 

And  one  the  marble  floor, 
Nor  half-hid  bosom  heave  the  less, 

Nor  broidered  corset  more  ! 

"Some  years  ago,  a  dark-eyed  girl 

Was  sitting  in  the  shade,  — 
There 's  something  brings  her  to  my  mind 

In  that  young  dreaming  maid,  — 
And  in  her  hand  she  held  a  flower, 

A  flower,  whose  speaking  hue 
Said,  in  the  language  of  the  heart, 

'  Believe  the  giver  true.' 

"  And,  as  she  looked  upon  its  leaves, 

The  maiden  made  a  vow 
To  wear  it  when  the  bridal  wreath 

Was  woven  for  her  brow  ; 


She  watched  the  flower,  as,  day  by  day, 
The  leaflets  curled  and  died  ; 

But  he  who  gave  it  never  came 
To  claim  her  for  his  bride. 

"  0  many  a  summer's  morning  glow 

Has  lent  the  rose  its  ray, 
And  many  a  winter's  drifting  snow 

Has  swept  its  bloom  away  ; 
But  she  has  kept  that  faithless  pledge 

To  this,  her  winter  hour, 
And  keeps  it  still,  herself  alone, 

And  wasted  like  the  flower. " 

Her  pale  lip  quivered,  and  the  light 

Gleamed  in  her  moistening  eyes  ;  — 
I  asked  her  how  she  liked  the  tints 

In  those  Castilian  skies  ? 
"  She  thought    them   misty,  —  't  was 
perhaps 

Because  she  stood  too  near  "  ; 
She  turned  away,  and  as  she  turned 

I  saw  her  wipe  a  tear. 


A  ROMAN  AQUEDUCT. 

THE  sun-browned  girl,  whose  limbs  re- 
cline 

When  noon  her  languid  hand  has  laid 
Hot  on  the  green  flakes  of  the  pine, 

Beneath  its  narrow  disk  of  shade  ; 

As,  through  the  flickering  noontide  glare, 
She  gazes  on  the  rainbow  chain 

Of  arches,  lifting  once  in  air 

The  rivers  of  the  Roman's  plain  ;  — 

Say,  does  her  wandering  eye  recall 
The  mountain-current's  icy  wave,  — 

Or  for  the  dead  one  tear  let  fall, 
Whose  founts  are  broken  by  their 
grave  ? 

From  stone  to  stone  the  ivy  weaves 
Her  braided  tracery's  winding  veil, 


78 


MISCELLANEOUS   POEMS. 


And  lacing  stalks  and  tangled  leaves 
Nod  heavy  in  the  drowsy  gale. 

And  lightly  floats  the  pendent  vine, 
That  swings  beneath  her  slender  bow, 

Arch  answering  arch,  —  whose  rounded 

line 
Seems  mirrored  in  the  wreath  below. 

How  patient  Nature  smiles  at  Fame ! 

The  weeds,  that  strewed  the  victor's 

way, 
Feed  on  his  dust  to  shroud  his  name, 

Green  where  his  proudest  towers  decay. 

See,  through  that  channel,  empty  now, 
The  scanty  rain  its  tribute  pours,  — 

Which  cooled  the  lip  and  laved  the  brow 
Of  conquerors  from  a  hundred  shores. 

Thus  bending  o'er  the  nation's  bier, 
Whose  wants  the  captive  earth  sup- 
plied, 

The  dew  of  Memory's  passing  tear 
Falls  on  the  arches  of  her  pride ! 


FROM  A  BACHELOR'S   PRIVATE 
JOURNAL. 

SWEET  Mary,  I  have  never  breathed 
The  love  it  were  in  vain  to  name  ; 

Though    round    my    heart    a    serpent 

wreathed, 
I  smiled,  or  strove  to  smile,  the  same. 

Once  more  the  pulse  of  Nature  glows 
With  faster  throb  and  fresher  fire, 

While  music  round  her  pathway  flows, 
Like  echoes  from  a  hidden  lyre. 

And  is  there  none  with  me  to  share 
The  glories  of  the  earth  and  sky  ? 

The  eagle  through  the  pathless  air 
Is  followed  by  one  burning  eye. 


Ah  no  I  the  cradled  flowers  may  wake, 
Again  may  flow  the  frozen  sea, 

From  every  cloud  a  star  may  break,  — 
There  comes  no  second  Spring  to  me. 

Go,  —  ere  the  painted  toys  of  youth 
Are  crushed  beneath  the  tread  of  years; 

Ere  visions  have  been  chilled  to  truth, 
And  hopes  are  washed  away  in  tears. 

Go,  —  for  I  will  not  bid  thee  weep,  — 
Too  soon  my  sorrows  will  be  thine, 

And  evening's  troubled  air  shall  sweep 
The  incense  from  the  broken  shrine. 

If  Heaven  can  hear  the  dying  tone 
Of  chords  that  soon  will  cease  to  thrill, 

The  prayer  that  Heaven  has  heard  alone 
May  bless  thee  when  those  chords  are 
still. 


LA  GRISETTE. 

AH  Clemence  !  when  I  saw  thee  last 

Trip  down  the  Rue  de  Seine, 
And  turning,  when  thy  form  had  past, 

I  said,  "We  meet  again,"  — 
I  dreamed  not  in  that  idle  glance 

Thy  latest  image  came, 
And  only  left  to  memory's  trance 

A  shadow  and  a  name. 

The  few  strange  words  my  lips  had  taught 

Thy  timid  voice  to  speak, 
Their  gentler  signs,  which  often  brought 

Fresh  roses  to  thy  cheek, 
The  trailing  of  thy  long  loose  hair 

Bent  o'er  my  couch  of  pain, 
All,  all  returned,  more  sweet,  more  fair ; 

0  had  we  met  again  ! 

I  walked  where  saint  and  virgin  keep 

The  vigil  lights  of  Heaven, 
I  knew  that  thou  hadst  woes  to  weep, 

And  sins  to  be  forgiven  ; 


OUR  YANKEE  GIRLS.  —  L'lNCONNUE. 


79 


I  watched  where  Genevieve  was  laid, 

I  knelt  by  Mary's  shrine, 
Beside  me  low,  soft  voices  prayed ; 

Alas  !  but  where  was  thine  ? 

And  when  the  morning  sun  was  bright, 

When  wind  and  wave  were  calm, 
And  flamed,  in  thousand-tinted  light, 

The  rose  of  Notre  Dame, 
I  wandered  through  the  haunts  of  men, 

From  Boulevard  to  Quai, 
Till,  frowning  o'er  Saint  Etienne, 

The  Pantheon's  shadow  lay. 

In  vain,  in  vain  ;  we  meet  no  more, 

Nor  dream  what  fates  befall ; 
And  long  upon  the  stranger's  shore 

My  voice  on  thee  may  call, 
When  years  have  clothed  the  line  in  moss 

That  tells  thy  name  and  days, 
And  withered,  on  thy  simple  cross, 

The  wreaths  of  Pere-la-Chaise  ! 


OUR  YANKEE  GIRLS. 

LET  greener  lands  and  bluer  skies, 

If  such  the  wide  earth  shows, 
With  fairer  cheeks  and  brighter  eyes, 

Match  us  the  star  and  rose  ; 
The  winds  that  lift  the  Georgian's  veil, 

Or  wave  Circassia's  curls, 
Waft  to  their  shores  the  sultan's  sail,  — 

Who  buys  our  Yankee  girls  ? 

The  gay  grisette,  whose  fingers  touch 

Love's  thousand  chords  so  well ; 
The  dark  Italian,  loving  much, 

But  more  than  one  can  tell ; 
And    England's   fair-haired,   blue-eyed 
dame, 

Who  binds  her  brow  with  pearls  ;  — 
Ye  who  have  seen  them,  can  they  shame 

Our  own  sweet  Yankee  girls  ? 


And  what  if  court  or  castle  vaunt 

Its  children  loftier  born  ?  — 
Who  heeds  the  silken  tassel's  flaunt 

Beside  the  golden  corn  ? 
They  ask  not  for  the  dainty  toil 

Of  ribboned  knights  and  earls, 
The  daughters  of  the  virgin  soil, 

Our  freeborn  Yankee  girls  ! 

By  every  hill  whose  stately  pines 

Wave  their  dark  arms  above 
The  home  where  some  fair  being  shines, 

To  warm  the  wilds  with  love, 
From  barest  rock  to  bleakest  shore 

Where  farthest  sail  unfurls, 
That   stars  and  stripes  are  streaming 
o'er,  — 

God  bless  our  Yankee  girls  ! 


L'lNCONNUE. 

Is  thy  name  Mary,  maiden  fair  ? 

Such  should,  methinks,  its  music  be ; 
The  sweetest  name  that  mortals  bear 

Were  best  befitting  thee  ; 
And  she  to  whom  it  once  was  given, 
Was  half  of  earth  and  half  of  heaven. 


I  hear  thy  voice,  I  see  thy  smile, 
I  look  upon  thy  folded  hair  ; 

Ah  !  while  we  dream  not  they  beguile, 
Our  hearts  are  in  the  snare ; 

And  she  who  chains  a  wild  bird's  wing 

Must  start  not  if  her  captive  sing. 

So,  lady,  take  the  leaf  that  falls, 
To  all  but  thee  unseen,  unknown  ; 

When  evening  shades  thy  silent  walls, 
Then  read  it  all  alone  ; 

In  stillness  read,  in  darkness  seal, 

Forget,  despise,  but  not  reveal ! 


80 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


STANZAS. 

STKANGE  !  that  one  lightly  whispered 
tone 

Is  far,  far  sweeter  unto  me, 
Than  all  the  sounds  that  kiss  the  earth, 

Or  breathe  along  the  sea  ; 
But,  lady,  when  thy  voice  I  greet, 
Not  heavenly  music  seems  so  sweet. 

I  look  upon  the  fair  blue  skies, 
And  naught  but  empty  air  I  see  ; 

But  when  I  turn  me  to  thine  eyes, 
It  seemeth  unto  me 

Ten  thousand  angels  spread  their  wings 

Within  those  little  azure  rings. 

The  lily  hath  the  softest  leaf 

That  ever  western  breeze  hath  fanned, 
But  thou  shalt  have  the  tender  flower, 

So  I  may  take  thy  hand  ; 
That  little  hand  to  me  doth  yield 
More  joy  than  all  the  broidered  field. 

0  lady  !  there  be  many  things 
That  seem  right  fair,  below,  above  ; 

But  sure  not  one  among  them  all 
Is  half  so  sweet  as  love  ;  — 

Let  us  not  pay  our  vows  alone, 

But  join  two  altars  both  in  one. 


LINES  BY  A  CLERK. 

OH  !  I  did  love  her  dearly, 

And  gave  her  toys  and  rings, 
And  I  thought  she  meant  sincerely, 

When  she  took  my  pretty  things. 
But  her  heart  has  grown  as  icy 

As  a  fountain  in  the  fall, 
And  her  love,  that  was  so  spicy, 

It  did  not  last  at  all. 

I  gave  her  once  a  locket, 
It  was  filled  with  my  own  hair, 


And  she  put  it  in  her  pocket 

With  very  special  care. 
But  a  jeweller  has  got  it,  — 

He  offered  it  to  me, 
And  another  that  is  not  it 

Around  her  neck  I  see. 

For  my  cooings  and  my  billings 

I  do  not  now  complain, 
But  my  dollars  and  my  shillings 

Will  never  come  again  ; 
They  were  earned  with  toil  and  sorrow, 

But  I  never  told  her  that, 
And  now  I  have  to  borrow, 

And  want  another  hat. 

Think,  think,  thou  cruel  Emma, 
When  thou  shalt  hear  my  woe, 

And  know  my  sad  dilemma, 
That  thou  hast  made  it  so. 

See,  see  my  beaver  rusty, 
Look,  look  upon  this  hole, 

This  coat  is  dim  and  dusty  ; 

0  let  it  rend  thy  soul ! 

Before  the  gates  of  fashion 

1  daily  bent  my  knee, 

But  I  sought  the  shrine  of  passion, 
And  found  my  idol,  —  thee. 

Though  never  love  intenser 
Had  bowed  a  soul  before  it, 

Thine  eye  was  on  the  censer, 
And  not  the  hand  that  bore  it. 


THE  PHILOSOPHER  TO  HIS  LOVE. 

DEAREST,  a  look  is  but  a  ray 
Reflected  in  a  certain  way  ; 
A  word,  whatever  tone  it  wear, 
Is  but  a  trembling  wave  of  air  ; 
A  touch,  obedience  to  a  clause 
In  nature's  pure  material  laws. 

The  very  flowers  that  bend  and  meet, 
In  sweetening  others,  grow  more  sweet ; 


THE  POET'S  LOT.  —  TO  A  BLANK  SHEET  OF  PAPER. 


81 


The  clouds  by  day,  the  stars  by  night, 
Inweave  their  floating  locks  of  light ; 
The  rainbow,  Heaven's  own  forehead's 

braid, 
Is  but  the  embrace  of  sun  and  shade. 

How  few  that  love  us  have  we  found  ! 
How  wide  the  world  that  girds  them 

round ! 

Like  mountain  streams  we  meet  and  part, 
Each  living  in  the  other's  heart, 
Our  course  unknown,  our  hope  to  be 
Yet  mingled  in  the  distant  sea. 

But  Ocean  coils  and  heaves  in  vain, 
Bound  in  the  subtle  moonbeam's  chain  ; 
And  love  and  hope  do  but  obey 
Some  cold,  capricious  planet's  ray, 
Which  lights  and  leads  the  tide  it  charms 
To  Death's  dark  caves  and  icy  arms. 

Alas  !  one  narrow  line  is  drawn, 
That  links  our  sunset  with  our  dawn  ; 
In  mist  and  shade  life's  morning  rose, 
And  clouds  are  round  it  at  its  close  ; 
But  ah  !  no  twilight  beam  ascends 
To  whisper  where  that  evening  ends. 

Oh  !  in  the  hour  when  I  shall  feel 
Those  shadows  round  my  senses  steal, 
Wheii  gentle  eyes  are  weeping  o'er 
The  clay  that  feels  their  tears  no  more, 
Then  let  thy  spirit  with  me  be, 
Or  some  sweet  angel,  likest  thee  ! 


THE  POET'S   LOT. 

WHAT  is  a  poet's  love  ?  — 
To  write  a  girl  a  sonnet, 

To  get  a  i-ing,  or  some  such  thing, 
And  fustianize  upon  it. 

What  is  a  poet's  fame  ?  — 
Sad  hints  about  his  reason, 


And  sadder  praise  from  garreteers, 
To  be  returned  in  season. 

Where  go  the  poet's  lines  ?  — 
Answer,  ye  evening  tapers  ! 

Ye  auburn  locks,  ye  golden  curls, 
Speak  from  your  folded  papers  ! 

Child  of  the  ploughshare,  smile  ; 

Boy  of  the  counter,  grieve  not, 
Though  muses  round  thy  trundle-bed 

Their  broidered  tissue  weave  not. 

The  poet's  future  holds 

No  civic  wreath  above  him  ; 

Nor  slated  roof,  nor  varnished  chaise, 
Nor  wife  nor  child  to  love  him. 

Maid  of  the  village  inn, 

Who  workest  woe  on  satin, 
(The  grass  in  black,  the  graves  in  green, 

The  epitaph  in  Latin,) 

Trust  not  to  them  who  say, 
In  stanzas,  they  adore  thee  ; 

0  rather  sleep  in  churchyard  clay, 
With  urn  and  cherub  o'er  thee  ! 


TO   A  BLANK  SHEET  OF  PAPER. 

WAN-VISAGED  thing  !  thy  virgin  leaf 
To  me  looks  more  than  deadly  pale, 

Unknowing  what  may  stain  thee  yet,  — 
A  poem  or  a  tale. 

Who  can  thy  unborn  meaning  scan  ? 

Can  Seer  or  Sibyl  read  thee  now  ? 
No,  —  seek  to  trace  the  fate  of  man 

Writ  on  his  infant  brow. 

Love  may  light  on  thy  snowy  cheek, 
And  shake  his  Eden-breathing  plumes ; 

Then  shalt  thou  tell  how  Lelia  smiles, 
Or  Angelina  blooms. 


82 


MISCELLANEOUS   POEMS. 


Satire  may  lift  his  bearded  lance, 

Forestalling      Time's      slow -moving 
scythe, 

And,  scattered  on  thy  little  field, 
Disjointed  bards  may  writhe. 

Perchance  a  vision  of  the  night, 

Some  grizzled  spectre,  gaunt  and  thin, 

Or  sheeted  corpse,  may  stalk  along, 
Or  skeleton  may  grin  ! 

If  it  should  be  in  pensive  hour 
Some  sorrow-moving  theme  I  tiy, 

Ah,  maiden,  how  thy  tears  will  fall, 
For  all  I  doom  to  die  ! 

But  if  in  merry  mood  I  touch 

Thy  leaves,  then  shall  the  sight  of 

thee 
Sow  smiles  as  thick  on  rosy  lips 

As  ripples  on  the  sea. 

The  Weekly  press  shall  gladly  stoop 
To  bind  thee  up  among  its  sheaves  ; 

The  Daily  steal  thy  shining  ore, 
To  gild  its  leaden  leaves. 

Thou  hast  no  tongue,  yet  thou  canst 

speak, 
Till   distant   shores   shall    hear    the 

sound ; 

Thou  hast  no  life,  yet  thou  canst  breathe 
Fresh  life  on  all  around. 

Thou  art  the  arena  of  the  wise, 

The  noiseless  battle-ground  of  fame  ; 

The  sky  where  halos  may  be  wreathed 
Around  the  humblest  name. 

Take,  then,  this  treasure  to  thy  trust, 
To  win  some  idle  reader's  smile, 

Then  fade  and  moulder  in  the  dust, 
Or  swell  some  bonfire's  pile. 


TO  THE   PORTRAIT  OF  "A  GENTLE- 
MAN." 

IN  THE   ATHEN^UM   GALLERY. 

IT  may  be  so,  —  perhaps  thou  hast 

A  warm  and  loving  heart ; 
I  will  not  blame  thee  for  thy  face, 

Poor  devil  as  thou  art. 

That  thing,  thou  fondly  deem'st  a  nose, 

Unsightly  though  it  be,  — 
In  spite  of  all  the  cold  world's  scorn, 

It  may  be  much  to  thee. 

Those  eyes,  —  among  thine  elder  friends 
Perhaps  they  pass  for  blue,  — 

No  matter,  —  if  a  man  can  see, 
What  more  have  eyes  to  do  ? 

Thy  mouth,  —  that  fissure  in  thy  face, 
By  something  like  a  chin,  — 

May  be  a  very  useful  place 
To  put  thy  victual  in. 

I  know  thou  hast  a  wife  at  home, 

I  know  thou  hast  a  child, 
By  that  subdued,  domestic  smile 

Upon  thy  features  mild. 

That  wife  sits  fearless  by  thy  side, 

That  cherub  on  thy  knee  ; 
They  do  not  shudder  at  thy  looks, 

They  do  not  shrink  from  thee. 

Above  thy  mantel  is  a  hook,  — 

A  portrait  once  was  there  ; 
It  was  thine  only  ornament,  — 

Alas  !  that  hook  is  bare. 

She  begged  thee  not  to  let  it  go, 
She  begged  thee  all  in  vain  ; 

She  wept,  —  and  breathed  a  trembling 

prayer 
To  meet  it  safe  again. 


THE  BALLAD  OF  THE  OYSTEKMAN. 


83 


It  was  a  bitter  sight  to  see 
That  picture  torn  away  ; 

It  was  a  solemn  thought  to  think 
What  all  her  friends  would  say ! 

And  often  in  her  calmer  hours, 
And  in  her  happy  dreams, 

Upon  its  long-deserted  hook 
The  absent  portrait  seems. 

Thy  wretched  infant  turns  his  head 

In  melancholy  wise, 
And  looks  to  meet  the  placid  stare 

Of  those  unbending  eyes. 

I  never  saw  thee,  lovely  one,  — 

Perchance  I  never  may ; 
It  is  not  often  that  we  cross 

Such  people  in  our  way ; 

But  if  we  meet  in  distant  years, 
Or  on  some  foreign  shore, 

Sure  I  can  take  my  Bible  oath, 
I  've  seen  that  face  before. 


THE  BALLAD  OF  THE  OYSTERMAN. 

IT  was  a  tall  young  oysterman  lived  by 

the  river-side, 
His  shop  was  just  upon  the  bank,  his 

boat  was  on  the  tide  ; 
The  daughter  of  a  fisherman,  that  was  so 

straight  and  slim, 
Lived  over  on  the  other  bank,   right 

opposite  to  him. 

It  was  the  pensive  oysterman  that  saw 

a  lovely  maid, 
Upon  a  moonlight  evening,  a  sitting  in 

the  shade  ; 
He  saw  her  wave  her  handkerchief,  as 

much  as  if  to  say, 
"  I  'm  wide  awake,  young  oysterman, 

and  all  the  folks  away." 


Then  up  arose  the  oysterman,  and  to 

himself  said  he, 
"I  guess  I  '11  leave  the  skiff  at  home, 

for  fear  that  folks  should  see  ; 
I  read  it  in  the  story-book,  that,  for  to 

kiss  his  dear, 
Leander  swam  the  Hellespont,  —  and  I 

will  swim  this  here." 

And  he  has  leaped  into  the  waves,  and 
crossed  the  shining  stream, 

And  he  has  clambered  up  the  bank,  all 
in  the  moonlight  gleam  ; 

0  there  were  kisses  sweet  as  dew,  and 

words  as  soft  as  rain,  — 
But  they  have  heard  her  father's  step, 
and  in  he  leaps  again ! 

Out  spoke  the  ancient  fisherman,  —  "0 

what  was  that,  my  daughter  ? " 
"'Twas  nothing  but  a  pebble,  sir,  I 

threw  into  the  water." 
"And  what  is  that,  pray  tell  me,  love, 

that  paddles  off  so  fast?" 
"  It 's  nothing  but  a  porpoise,  sir,  that 's 

been  a  swimming  past." 

Out  spoke  the  ancient  fisherman,  — 
"Now  bring  me  my  harpoon! 

1  '11  get  into  my  fishing-boat,  and  fix 

the  fellow  soon." 
Down  fell  that  pretty  innocent,  as  falls 

a  snow-white  lamb, 
Her    hair   drooped    round    her    pallid 

cheeks,  like  seaweed  on  a  clam. 

Alas  for  those  two  loving  ones  !  she 

waked  not  from  her  swound, 
And  he  was  taken  with  the  cramp,  and 

in  the  waves  was  drowned  ; 
But  Fate  has  metamorphosed  them,  in 

pity  of  their  woe, 
And  now  they  keep  an  oyster-shop  for 

mermaids  down  below. 


84 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


A  NOONTIDE  LYRIC. 

THE  dinner-bell,  the  dinner-bell 

Is  ringing  loud  and  clear  ; 
Through  hill  and  plain,  through  street 
and  lane, 

It  echoes  far  and  near  ; 
From  curtained  hall  and  whitewashed 
stall, 

Wherever  men  can  hide, 
Like  bursting  waves  from  ocean  caves, 

They  float  upon  the  tide. 

I  smell  the  smell  of  roasted  meat  ! 

I  hear  the  hissing  fry  ! 
The  beggars  know  where  they  can  go, 

But  where,  0  where  shall  I  ? 
At  twelve  o'clock  men  took  my  hand, 

At  two  they  only  stare, 
And  eye  me  with  a  fearful  look, 

As  if  I  were  a  bear  ! 

The  poet  lays  his  laurels  down, 

And  hastens  to  his  greens  ; 
The  happy  tailor  quits  his  goose, 

To  riot  on  his  beans  ; 
The  weary  cobbler  snaps  his  thread, 

The  printer  leaves  his  pi  ; 
His  very  devil  hath  a  home, 

But  what,  0  what  have  I  ? 

Methinks  I  hear  an  angel  voice, 

That  softly  seems  to  say  : 
"  Pale  stranger,  all  may  yet  be  well, 

Then  wipe  thy  tears  away  ; 
Erect  thy  head,  and  cock  thy  hat, 

And  follow  me  afar, 
And  thou  shalt  have  a  jolly  meal, 

And  charge  it  at  the  bar." 

I  hear  the  voice  !  I  go  !  I  go  ! 

Prepare  your  meat  and  wine  ! 
They  little  heed  their  future  need, 

Who  pay  not  when  they  dine. 


Give  me  to-day  the  rosy  bow  1, 
Give  me  one  golden  dream,  — 

To-morrow  kick  away  the  stool, 
And  dangle  from  the  beam  ! 


THE  HOT  SEASON. 

THE  folks,  that  on  the  first  of  May 

Wore  winter  coats  and  hose, 
Began  to  say,  the  first  of  June, 

"  Good  Lord  !  how  hot  it  grows  !  s 
At  last  two  Fahrenheits  blew  up, 

And  killed  two  children  small, 
And  one  barometer  shot  dead 

A  tutor  with  its  ball  ! 

Now  all  day  long  the  locusts  sang 

Among  the  leafless  trees  ; 
Three  new  hotels  warped  inside  out, 

The  pumps  could  only  wheeze  ; 
And  ripe  old  wine,  that  twenty  years 

Had  cobwebbed  o'er  in  vain, 
Came  spouting  through  the  rotten  corks, 

Like  Joly's  best  Champagne  ! 

The  Worcester  locomotives  did 

Their  trip  in  half  an  hour  ; 
The  Lowell  cars  ran  forty  miles 

Before  they  checked  the  power ; 
Roll  brimstone  soon  became  a  drug, 

And  loco-focos  fell  ; 
All  asked  for  ice,  but  everywhere 

Saltpetre  was  to  sell. 

Plump  men  of  mornings  ordered  tights, 

But,  ere  the  scorching  noons, 
Their  candle-moulds  had  grown  as  loose 

As  Cossack  pantaloons  ! 
The  dogs  ran  mad,  —  men  could  not  try 

If  water  they  would  choose  ; 
A  horse  fell  dead,  —  he  only  left 

Four  red-hot,  rusty  shoes  ! 

But  soon  the  people  could  not  bear 
The  slightest  hint  of  fire  ; 


A  PORTRAIT.  —  AN   EVENING  THOUGHT. 


85 


Allusions  to  caloric  drew 

A  flood  of  savage  ire  ; 
The  leaves  on  heat  were  all  torn  out 

From  every  book  at  school, 
And    many    blackguards    kicked    and 
caned, 

Because  they  said,  "  Keep  cool  ! " 

The  gas-light  companies  were  mobbed, 

The  bakers  all  were  shot, 
The  penny  press  began  to  talk 
Of  Lynching  Doctor  Nott ; 
And  all  about  the  warehouse  steps 

Were  angry  men  in  droves, 
Crashing  and  splintering  through  the 
doors 

To  smash  the  patent  stoves  ! 

The  abolition  men  and  maids 

Were  tanned  to  such  a  hue, 
You  scarce  could  tell  them  from  their 
friends, 

Unless  their  eyes  were  blue  ; 
And,  when  I  left,  society 

Had  burst  its  ancient  guards, 
'And  Brattle  Street  and  Temple  Place 

Were  interchanging  cards  ! 


A  PORTRAIT. 

A  STILL  sweet,  placid,  moonlight  face, 

And  slightly  nonchalant, 
Which  seems  to  claim  a  middle  place 

Between  one's  love  and  aunt, 
Where  childhood's  star  has  left  a  ray 

In  woman's  sunniest  sky, 
As  morning  dew  and  blushing  day 

On  fruit  and  blossom  lie. 

And  yet,  —  and  yet  I  cannot  love 
Those  lovely  lines  on  steel  ; 

They  beam  too  much  of  heaven  above, 
Earth's  darker  shades  to  feel ; 


Perchance  some  early  weeds  of  care 
Around  my  heart  have  grown, 

And  brows  unfurrowed  seem  not  fair, 
Because  they  mock  my  own. 

Alas  !  when  Eden's  gates  were  sealed, 

How  oft  some  sheltered  flower 
Breathed    o'er    the   wanderers    of   the 
field, 

Like  their  own  bridal  bower  ; 
Yet,  saddened  by  its  loveliness, 

And  humbled  by  its  pride, 
Earth's  fairest  child    they  could    not 
bless,  — 

It  mocked  them  when  they  sighed. 


AN  EVENING  THOUGHT. 

WEITTEN   AT   SEA. 

IF  sometimes  in  the  dark  blue  eye, 

Or  in  the  deep  red  wine, 
Or  soothed  by  gentlest  melody, 

Still  warms  this  heart  of  mine, 
Yet  something  colder  in  the  blood, 

And  calmer  in  the  brain, 
Have  whispered  that  my  youth's  bright 
flood 

Ebbs,  not  to  flow  again. 

If  by  Helvetia's  azure  lake, 

Or  Arno's  yellow  stream, 
Each  star  of  memory  could  awake, 

As  in  my  first  young  dream, 
I  know  that  when  mine  eye  shall  greet 

The  hillsides  bleak  and  bare, 
That  gird  my  home,  it  will  not  meet 

My  childhood's  sunsets  there. 

0  when  love's  first,  sweet,  stolen  kiss 

Burned  on  my  boyish  brow, 
Was    that    young    forehead   worn    as 
this? 

Was  that  flushed  cheek  as  now  ? 


86 


MISCELLANEOUS   POEMS. 


Were  that  wild  pulse  and  throbbing 
heart 

Like  these,  which  vainly  strive, 
In  thankless  strains  of  soulless  art, 

To  dream  themselves  alive  ? 

Alas  !  the  morning  dew  is  gone, 

Gone  ere  the  full  of  day  ; 
Life's  iron  fetter  still  is  on, 

Its  wreaths  all  torn  away  ; 
Happy  if  still  some  casual  hour 

Can  warm  the  fading  shrine, 
Too  soon  to  chill  beyond  the  power 

Of  love,  or  song,  or  wine  ! 


THE  WASP  AND  THE  HORNET. 

THE  two  proud  sisters  of  the  sea, 

In  glory  and  in  doom  !  — 
Well  may  the  eternal  waters  be 

Their  broad,  unsculptured  tomb  ! 
The  wind  that  rings  along  the  wave, 

The  clear,  unshadowed  sun, 
Are  torch  and  trumpet  o'er  the  brave, 

Whose  last  green  wreath  is  won  ! 

No  stranger-hand  their  banners  furled, 

No  victor's  shout  they  heard  ; 
Unseen,  above  them  ocean  curled, 

Save  by  his  own  pale  bird  ; 
The  gnashing  billows  heaved  and  fell ; 

Wild  shrieked  the  midnight  gale  ; 
Far,  far  beneath  the  morning  swell 

Were  pennon,  spar,  and  sail. 

The  land  of  Freedom  !    Sea  and  shore 

Are  guarded  now,  as  when 
Her  ebbing  waves  to  victory  bore 

Fair  barks  and  gallant  men  ; 
0  many  a  ship  of  prouder  name 

May  wave  her  starry  fold, 
Nor  trail,  with  deeper  light  of  fame, 

The  paths  they  swept  of  old  ! 


"QUI  VIVE." 

"  Qui   vive  I  "      The    sentry's   musket 
rings, 

The  channelled  bayonet  gleams  ; 
High  o'er  him,  like  a  raven's  wings 
The  broad  tricolored  banner  flings 
Its  shadow,  rustling  as  it  swings 

Pale  in  the  moonlight  beams  ; 
Pass  on  !  while  steel-clad  sentries  keep 
Their  vigil  o'er  the  monarch's  sleep, 

Thy  bare,  unguarded  breast 
Asks  not  the  unbroken,  bristling  zone 
That    girds    yon    sceptred    trembler's 
throne ; — 

Pass  on,  and  take  thy  rest  ! 

"  Qui  vive  !  "     How  oft  the  midnight 

ail- 
That  startling  cry  has  borne  ! 
How  oft  the  evening  breeze  has  fanned 
The  banner  of  this  haughty  land, 
O'er  mountain  snow  and  desert  sand, 

Ere  yet  its  folds  were  torn  ! 
Through  Jena's  carnage  flying  red, 
Or  tossing  o'er  Marengo's  dead, 

Or  curling  on  the  towers 
Where  Austria's  eagle  quivers  yet, 
And  suns  the  ruffled  plumage,  wet 
With  battle's  crimson  showers  ! 

"  Qui    vive!"     And    is    the    sentry's 
cry,— 

The  sleepless  soldier's  hand,  — 
Are  these  —  the  painted  folds  that  fly 
And  lift  their  emblems,  printed  high 
On  morning  mist  and  sunset  sky  — 

The  guardians  of  a  land  ? 
No  !     If  the  patriot's  pulses  sleep, 
How  vain    the    watch    that    hirelings 
keep,  — 

The  idle  flag  that  waves, 
When  Conquest,  with  his  iron  heel, 
Treads  down  the  standards  and  the  steel 

That  belt  the  soil  of  slaves  ! 


SONGS    IN    MANY   KEYS. 


THE  piping  of  our  slender,  peaceful  reeds 

Whispers  uncared  for  while  the  trumpets  bray; 

Song  is  thin  air ;  our  hearts'  exulting  play 

Beats  time  but  to  the  tread  of  marching  deeds, 

Following  the  mighty  van  that  Freedom  leads, 

Her  glorious  standard  flaming  to  the  day! 

The  crimsoned  pavement  where  a  hero  bleeds 

Breathes  nobler  lessons  than  the  poet's  lay. 

Strong  arms,  broad  breasts,  brave  hearts,  are  better  wortl 

Than  strains  that  sing  the  ravished  echoes  dumb. 

Hark !  't  is  the  loud  reverberating  drum 

Rolls  o'er  the  prairied  West,  the  rock-bound  North  : 

The  myriad-handed  Future  stretches  forth 

Its  shadowy  palms.     Behold,  we  come, — we  come! 

Turn  o'er  these  idle  leaves.     Such  toys  as  these 
Were  not  unsought  for,  as,  in  languid  dreams, 
We  lay  beside  our  lotus-feeding  streams, 
And  nursed  our  fancies  in  forgetful  ease. 
It  matters  little  if  they  pall  or  please, 
Dropping  untimely,  while  the  sudden  gleams 
Glare  from  the  mustering  clouds  whose  blackness  seems 
Too  swollen  to  hold  its  lightning  from  the  trees. 
Yet,  in  some  lull  of  passion,  when  at  last 
These  calm  revolving  moons  that  come  and  go  — 
Turning  our  months  to  years,  they  creep  so  slow- — 
Have  brought  us  rest,  the  not  unwelcome  past 
May  nutter  to  thee  through  these  leaflets,  cast 
On  the  wild  winds  that  all  around  us  blow. 
MAY  1,  1861. 


SONGS   IN    MANY   KEYS. 


I.  — 1849  -  1856. 


AGNES. 

PART    FIRST. 
THE   KNIGHT. 

THE  tale  I  tell  is  gospel  true, 

As  all  the  bookmen  know, 
And  pilgrims  who  have  strayed  to  view 

The  wrecks  still  left  to  show. 

The  old,  old  story,  —  fair,  and  young, 
And  fond,  —  and  not  too  wise,  — 

that    matrons    tell,    with    sharpened 

tongue, 
To  maids  with  downcast  eyes. 

Ah  !  maidens  err  and  matrons  warn 

Beneath  the  coldest  sky  ; 
Love  lurks  amid  the  tasselled  corn 

As  in  the  bearded  rye  ! 

But  who  would  dream  our  sober  sires 
Had  learned  the  old  world's  ways, 

And  warmed  their  hearths  with  lawless 

fires 
In  Shirley's  homespun  days  ? 

T  is  like  some  poet's  pictured  trance 

His  idle  rhymes  recite,  — 
This  old  New-England-born  romance 

Of  Agnes  and  the  Knight  ; 


Yet,  known  to  all  the  country  round, 
Their  home  is  standing  still, 

Between  Wachuset's  lonely  mound 
And  Shawmut's  threefold  hill. 

—  One  hour  we  rumble  on  the  rail, 
One  half-hour  guide  the  rein, 

We  reach  at  last,  o'er  hill  and  dale, 
The  village  on  the  plain. 

With  blackening  wall  and  mossy  roof, 
With  stained  and  warping  floor, 

A  stately  mansion  stands  aloof 
And  bars  its  haughty  door. 

This  lowlier  portal  may  be  tried, 
That  breaks  the  gable  wall ; 

And  lo  !  with  arches  opening  wide, 
Sir  Harry  Frankland's  hall  ! 

'T  was  in  the  second  George's  day 
They  sought  the  forest  shade, 

The  knotted  trunks  they  cleared  away, 
The  massive  beams  they  laid, 

They  piled  the  rock-hewn  chimney  tall, 
They  smoothed  the  terraced  ground, 

They  reared  the  marble-pillared  wall 
That  fenced  the  mansion  round. 

Far  stretched  beyond  the  village  bound 
The  Master's  broad  domain  ; 


90 


SONGS   IN   MANY   KEYS. 


With  page  and  valet,  horse  and  hound, 
He  kept  a  goodly  train. 

Aad,  all  the  midland  county  through, 
The  ploughman  stopped  to  gaze 

Whene'er  his  chariot  swept  in  view 
Behind  the  shining  bays, 

With  mute  obeisance,  grave  and  slow, 

Repaid  by  nod  polite,  — 
For  such  the  way  with  high  and  low 

Till  after  Concord  fight. 

Nor  less  to  courtly  circles  known 
That  graced  the  three-hilled  town 

With  far-off  splendors  of  the  Throne, 
And  glimmerings  from  the  Crown  ; 

Wise  Phipps,  who  held  the  seals  of  state 

For  Shirley  over  sea  ; 
Brave  Knowles,  whose  press-gang  moved 
of  late 

The  King  Street  mob's  decree  ; 

And  judges  grave,  and  colonels  grand, 
Fair  dames  and  stately  men, 

The  mighty  people  of  the  land, 
The  "  World  "  of  there  and  then. 

T  was  strange  no  Chloe's  "beauteous 
Form," 

And  "  Eyes'  ccelestial  Blew," 
This  Strephon  of  the  West  could  warm, 

No  Nymph  his  Heart  subdue  ! 

Perchance  he  wooed  as  gallants  use, 
Whom  fleeting  loves  enchain, 

But  still  unfettered,  free  to  choose, 
Would  brook  no  bridle-rein. 

He  saw  the  fairest  of  the  fair, 

But  smiled  alike  on  all ; 
No  band  his  roving  foot  might  snare, 

No  ring  his  hand  enthrall. 


PART    SECOND. 
THE    MAIDEN. 

WHY  seeks  the  knight  that  rocky  cape 

Beyond  the  Bay  of  Lynn  ? 
What  chance  his  wayward  course  may 
shape 

To  reach  its  village  inn  ? 

No  story  tells  ;  whate'er  we  guess, 

The  past  lies  deaf  and  still, 
But  Fate,  who  rules  to  blight  or  bless, 

Can  lead  us  where  she  will. 

Make  way  !    Sir  Harry's  coach  and  four, 
And  liveried  grooms  that  ride ! 

They  cross  the  ferry,  touch  the  shore 
On  Winnisimmet's  side. 

They  hear  the  wash  on  Chelsea  Beach,  — 

The  level  marsh  they  pass, 
Where  miles  on  miles  the  desert  reach 

Is  rough  with  bitter  grass. 

The  shining  horses  foam  and  pant, 

And  now  the  smells  begin 
Of  fishy  Swampscot,  salt  Nahant, 

And  leather-scented  Lynn. 

Next,  on  their  left,  the  slender  spires, 
And  glittering  vanes,  that  crown, 

The  home  of  Salem's  frugal  sires, 
The  old,  witch-haunted  town. 

So  onward,  o'er  the  rugged  way 
That  runs  through  rocks  and  sand, 

Showered  by  the  tempest-driven  spray, 
From  bays  on  either  hand, 

That  shut  between  their  outstretched 
arms 

The  crews  of  Marblehead, 
The  lords  of  ocean's  watery  farms, 

Who  plough  the  waves  for  bread. 


She  turned,  —  a  reddening  rose  in  bud. "     Page  91. 


AGNES. 


91 


At  last  the  ancient  inn  appears, 

The  spreading  elm  below, 
Whose  flapping  sign  these  fifty  years 

Has  seesawed  to  and  fro. 

How  fair  the  azure  fields  in  sight 

Before  the  low-browed  inn  ! 
The  tumbling  billows  fringe  with  light 

The  crescent  shore  of  Lynn  ; 

Nahant  thrusts   outward  through  the 
waves 

Her  arm  of  yellow  sand, 
And  breaks  the  roaring  surge  that  braves 

The  gauntlet  on  her  hand  ; 

With  eddying  whirl  the  waters  lock 
Yon  treeless  mound  forlorn, 

The  sharp-winged  sea-fowl's  breeding- 
rock, 
That  fronts  the  Spouting  Horn  ; 

Then  free  the  white-sailed  shallops  glide, 

And  wide  the  ocean  smiles, 
Till,  shoreward  bent,  his  streams  divide 

The  two  bare  Misery  Isles. 

The  master's  silent  signal  stays 

The  wearied  cavalcade ; 
The  coachman  reins  his  smoking  bays 

Beneath  the  elm -tree's  shade. 

A  gathering  on  the  village  green  ! 

The  cocked-hats  crowd  to  see, 
On  legs  in  ancient  velveteen, 

With  buckles  at  the  knee. 

A  clustering  round  the  tavern -door 

Of  square-toed  village  boys, 
Still  wearing,  as  their  grandsires  wore, 

The  old-world  corduroys ! 

A  scampering  at  the  "Fountain  "  inn,  — 
A  rush  of  great  and  small,  — 

With  hurrying  servants'  mingled  din 
And  screaming  matron's  call ! 


Poor  Agnes  !  with  her  work  half  done 

They  caught  her  unaware  ; 
As,  humbly,  like  a  praying  nun, 

She  knelt  upon  the  stair ; 

Bent  o'er  the  steps,  with  lowliest  mien 
She  knelt,  but  not  to  pray,  — 

Her  little  hands  must  keep  them  clean, 
And  wash  their  stains  away. 

A  foot,  an  ankle,  bare  and  white, 
Her  girlish  shapes  betrayed,  — 

"Ha!   Nymphs   and   Graces!"   spoke 

the  Knight ; 
"  Look  up,  my  beauteous  Maid  !" 

She  turned,  —  a  reddening  rose  in  bud, 
Its  calyx  half  withdrawn,  — 

Her  cheek  on  fire  with  damasked  blood 
Of  girlhood's  glowing  dawn  ! 

He  searched  her  features  through  and 
through, 

As  royal  lovers  look 
On  lowly  maidens,  when  they  woo 

Without  the  ring  and  book. 

"Come  hither,   Fair  one!     Here,   my 
Sweet ! 

Nay,  prithee,  look  not  down  ! 
Take  this  to  shoe  those  little  feet,"  • — 

He  tossed  a  silver  crown. 

A  sudden  paleness  struck  her  brow,  — 

A  swifter  flush  succeeds ; 
It  burns  her  cheek;  it  kindles  now 

Beneath  her  golden  beads. 

She  flitted,  but  the  glittering  eye 

Still  sought  the  lovely  face. 
Who  was  she  ?  What,  and  whence  ?  and 
why 

Doomed  to  such  menial  place  ? 

A  skipper's  daughter,  —  so  they  said,  — 
Left  orphan  by  the  gale 


92 


SONGS   IN   MANY  KEYS. 


That  cost  the  fleet  of  Marblehead 
And  Gloucester  thirty  sail. 

Ah !  many  a  lonely  home  is  found 

Along  the  Essex  shore, 
That    cheered    its    goodman    outward 
bound, 

And  sees  his  face  no  more  ! 

"Not  so,"   the  matron  whispered,  -- 
"sure 

No  orphan  girl  is  she,  — 
The  Surraige  folk  are  deadly  poor 

Since  Edward  left  the  sea, 

"And  Mary,  with  her  growing  brood, 

Has  work  enough  to  do 
To  find  the  children  clothes  and  food 

With  Thomas,  John,  and  Hugh. 

"  This  girl  of  Mary's,  growing  tall,  — 
(Just  turned  her  sixteenth  year,)  — 

To  earn  her  bread  and  help  them  all, 
Would  work  as  housemaid  here." 

So  Agnes,  with  her  golden  beads, 
And  naught  beside  as  dower, 

Grew  at  the  wayside  with  the  weeds, 
Herself  a  garden-flower. 

T  was  strange,  't  was  sad,  —  so  fresh,  so 
fair! 

Thus  Pity's  voice  began. 
Such  grace !  an  angel's  shape  and  air ! 

The  half-heard  whisper  ran. 

For  eyes  could  see  in  George's  time, 

As  now  in  later  days, 
And  lips   could   shape,   in  prose   and 
rhyme, 

The  honeyed  breath  of  praise. 

No  time  to  woo  !     The  train  must  go 

Long  ere  the  sun  is  down, 
To  reach,  before  the  night-winds  blow, 

The  many-steepled  town. 


'T  is  midnight,  —  street  and  square  are 
still ; 

Dark  roll  the  whispering  waves 
That  lap  the  piers  beneath  the  hill 

Ridged  thick  with  ancient  graves. 

Ah,  gentle  sleep !  thy  hand  will  smooth 

The  weary  couch  of  pain, 
When  all  thy  poppies  fail  to  soothe 

The  lover's  throbbing  brain  ! 

'T  is  morn,  —  the  orange-mantled  sun 
Breaks  through  the  fading  gray, 

And  long  and  loud  the  Castle  gun 
Peals  o'er  the  glistening  bay. 

"Thank  God  'tis  day  !"     With  eager 
eye 

He  hails  the  morning's  shine  :  — 
"  If  art  can  win,  or  gold  can  buy, 

The  maiden  shall  be  mine  ! " 


PART    THIRD. 
THE   CONQUEST. 

"WHO  saw  this  hussy  when  she  came? 

What  is  the  wench,  and  who  ?" 
They  whisper.    "Agnes,  —  is  her  name  ! 

Pray  what  has  she  to  do  ? " 

The  housemaids  parley  at  the  gate, 

The  scullions  on  the  stair, 
And  in  the  footmen's  grave  debate 

The  butler  deigns  to  share. 

Black  Dinah,  stolen  when  a  child, 

And  sold  on  Boston  pier, 
Grown  up  in  service,  petted,  spoiled, 

Speaks  in  the  coachman's  ear : 

"What,  all  this  household  at  his  will ? 

And  all  are  yet  too  few  ? 
More  servants,  and  more  servants  still,  — 

This  pert  young  madam  too  ! " 


AGNES. 


u  Servant!  fine  servant !"  laughed  aloud 
The  man  of  coach  and  steeds  ; 

"  She  looks  too  fair,  she  steps  too  proud, 
This  girl  with  golden  beads  ! 

"  I  tell  you,  you  may  fret  and  frown, 
And  call  her  what  you  choose, 

You  '11  find  my  Lady  in  her  gown, 
Your  Mistress  in  her  shoes !" 

Ah,  gentle  maidens,  free  from  blame, 

God  grant  you  never  know 
The  little  whisper,  loud  with  shame, 

That  makes  the  world  your  foe  ! 

Why  tell  the  lordly  flatterer's  art, 
That  won  the  maiden's  ear,  — 

The  fluttering  of  the  frightened  heart, 
The  blush,  the  smile,  the  tear  ? 

Alas  !  it  were  the  saddening  tale 
That  every  language  knows,  — 

The  wooing  wind,  the  yielding  sail, 
The  sunbeam  and  the  rose. 

And  now  the  gown  of  sober  stuff 
Has  changed  to  fair  brocade, 

With  broidered  hem,  and  hanging  cuff, 
And  flower  of  silken  braid  ; 

And  clasped  around  her  blanching  wrist 

A  jewelled  bracelet  shines, 
Her  flowing  tresses'  massive  twist 

A  glittering  net  confines  ; 

And  mingling  with  their  truant  wave 

A  fretted  chain  is  hung  ; 
But  ah  !  the  gift  her  mother  gave,  — 

Its  beads  are  all  unstrung  ! 

Her  place  is  at  the  master's  board, 
Where  none  disputes  her  claim  ; 

8he  walks  beside  the  mansion's  lord, 
His  bride  in  all  but  name. 


The  busy  tongues  have  ceased  to  talk, 
Or  speak  in  softened  tone, 

So  gracious  in  her  daily  walk 
The  angel  light  has  shown. 

No  want  that  kindness  may  relieve 

Assails  her  heart  in  vain, 
The  lifting  of  a  ragged  sleeve 

Will  check  her  palfrey's  rein. 

A  thoughtful  calm,  a  quiet  grace 
In  every  movement  shown, 

Reveal  her  moulded  for  the  place 
She  may  not  call  her  own. 

And,  save  that  on  her  youthful  brow 
There  broods  a  shadowy  care, 

No  matron  sealed  with  holy  vow 
In  all  the  land  so  fair ! 


PART    FOURTH. 
THE   RESCUE. 

A  SHIP  comes  foaming  up  the  bay, 

Along  the  pier  she  glides  ; 
Before  her  furrow  melts  away, 

A  courier  mounts  and  rides. 

"Haste,  Haste,  post  Haste!"  the  let- 
ters bear ; 

"Sir  Harry  Frankland,  These." 
Sad  news  to  tell  the  loving  pair ! 

The  knight  must  cross  the  seas. 

"  Alas !  we  part ! " — the  lips  that  spoke 

Lost  all  their  rosy  red, 
As  when  a  crystal  cup  is  broke, 

And  all  its  wine  is  shed. 

"Nay,  droop  not  thus,  — where'er,"  he 
cried, 

"  I  go  by  land  or  sea, 
My  love,  my  life,  my  joy,  my  pride, 

Thy  place  is  still  by  me !" 


94 


SONGS  IN   MANY  KEYS. 


Through  town  and  city,  far  and  wide, 
Their  wandering  feet  have  strayed, 

From  Alpine  lake  to  ocean  tide, 
And  cold  Sierra's  shade. 

it  length  they  see  the  waters  gleam 

Amid  the  fragrant  bowers 
tVhere  Lisbon  mirrors  in  the  stream 

Her  belt  of  ancient  towers. 

Red  is  the  orange  on  its  bough, 

To-morrow's  sun  shall  fling 
O'er  Cintra's  hazel-shaded  brow 

The  flush  of  April's  wing. 

The  streets  are  loud  with  noisy  mirth, 
They  dance  on  every  green  ; 

The  morning's  dial  marks  the  birth 
Of  proud  Braganza's  queen. 

At  eve  beneath  their  pictured  dome 
The  gilded  courtiers  throng ; 

The  broad  moidores  have  cheated  Rome 
Of  all  her  lords  of  song. 

Ah !  Lisbon  dreams  not  of  the  day — 
Pleased  with  her  painted  scenes  — 

When  all  her  towers  shall  slide  away 
As  now  these  canvas  screens ! 

The  spring  has  passed,  the  summer  fled, 

And  yet  they  linger  still, 
Though  autumn's  rustling  leaves  have 
spread 

The  flank  of  Cintra's  hill. 

The  town  has  learned  their  Saxon  name, 
And  touched  their  English  gold, 

Nor  tale  of  doubt  nor  hint  of  blame 
From  over  sea  is  told. 

Three  hours  the  first  November  dawn 
Has  climbed  with  feeble  ray 

Through  mists  like  heavy  curtains  drawn 
Before  the  darkened  day. 


How  still  the  muffled  echoes  sleep ! 

Hark  !  hark  !  a  hollow  sound,  — 
A  noise  like  chariots  rumbling  deep 

Beneath  the  solid  ground. 

The  channel  lifts,  the  water  slides 

And  bares  its  bar  of  sand, 
Anon  a  mountain  billow  strides 

And  crashes  o'er  the  land. 

The  turrets  lean,  the  steeples  reel 
Like  masts  on  ocean's  swell, 

And  clash  a  long  discordant  peal, 
The  death-doomed  city's  knell. 

The  pavement  bursts,  the  earth  upheaves 
Beneath  the  staggering  town  ! 

The  turrets  crack  —  the  castle  cleaves  — 
The  spires  come  rushing  down. 

Around,  the  lurid  mountains  glow 
With  strange  unearthly  gleams  ; 

While  black  abysses  gape  below, 
Then  close  in  jagged  seams. 

The  earth  has  folded  like  a  wave, 
And  thrice  a  thousand  score, 

Clasped,    shroudless,    in   their    closing 

grave, 
The  sun  shall  see  no  more  ! 

And  all  is  over.     Street  and  square 

In  ruined  heaps  are  piled  ; 
Ah  !  where  is  she,  so  frail,  so  fair, 

Amid  the  tumult  wild  ? 

Unscathed,  she  treads  the  wreck-piled 
street, 

Whose  narrow  gaps  afford 
A  pathway  for  her  bleeding  feet, 

To  seek  her  absent  lord. 

A  temple's  broken  walls  arrest 
Her  wild  and  wandering  eyes  ; 

Beneath  its  shattered  portal  pressed, 
Her  lord  unconscious  lies. 


AGNES. 


95 


The  power  that  living  hearts  obey 
Shall  lifeless  blocks  withstand  ? 

Love  led  her  footsteps  where  he  lay,  — 
Love  nerves  her  woman's  hand  : 

One  cry, — the  marble  shaft  she  grasps, — 
Up  heaves  the  ponderous  stone  : — 

He   breathes,  —  her  fainting  form  he 

clasps,  — 
Her  life  has  bought  his  own  ! 

PART    FIFTH. 
THE   REWARD. 

How  like  the  starless  night  of  death 

Our  being's  brief  eclipse, 
When  faltering  heart  and  failing  breath 

Have  bleached  the  fading  lips  ! 

She  lives  !     What  guerdon  shall  repay 

His  debt  of  ransomed  life  ? 
One  word  can  charm  all  wrongs  away,  — 

The  sacred  name  of  WIFE  ! 

The  love  that  won  her  girlish  charms 
Must  shield  her  matron  fame, 

And  write  beneath  the  Frankland  arms 
The  village  beauty's  name. 

Go,  call  the  priest  !  no  vain  delay 

Shall  dim  the  sacred  ring  ! 
Who  knows  what  change  the  passingday, 

The  fleeting  hour,  may  bring? 

Before  the  holy  altar  bent, 
There  kneels  a  goodly  pair  ; 

A  stately  man,  of  high  descent, 
A  woman,  passing  fair. 

No  jewels  lend  the  blinding  sheen 

That  meaner  beauty  needs, 
But  on  her  bosom  heaves  unseen 

A  string  of  golden  beads. 


The  vow  is  spoke,  —  the  prayer  is  said,  — 

And  with  a  gentle  pride 
The  Lady  Agnes  lifts  her  head, 

Sir  Harry  Frankland's  bride. 

No  more  her  faithful  heart  shall  bear 
Those  griefs  so  meekly  borne,  — 

The  passing  sneer,  the  freezing  stare, 
The  icy  look  of  scorn  ; 

No  more  the  blue-eyed  English  dames 
Their  haughty  lips  shall  curl, 

Whene'er  a  hissing  whisper  names 
The  poor  New  England  girl. 

But     stay !  —  his    mother's     haughty 
brow,  — 

The  pride  of  ancient  race,  — 
Will  plighted  faith,  and  holy  vow, 

Win  back  her  fond  embrace  ? 

Too  well  she  knew  the  saddening  tale 

Of  love  no  vow  had  blest, 
That  turned  his  blushing  honors  pale 

And  stained  his  knightly  crest. 

They  seek  his  Northern  home,  —  alas  : 

He  goes  alone  before  ;  — 
His  own  dear  Agnes  may  not  pass 

The  proud,  ancestral  door. 

He  stood  before  the  stately  dame  ; 

He  spoke  ;  she  calmly  heard, 
But  not  to  pity,  nor  to  blame  ; 

She  breathed  no  single  word. 

He  told  his  love,  —  her  faith  betrayed ; 

She  heard  with  tearless  eyes  ; 
Could  she  forgive  the  erring  maid  ? 

She  stared  in  cold  surprise. 

How  fond  her  heart,  he  told,  — how  true ; 

The  haughty  eyelids  fell ;  — 
The  kindly  deeds  she  loved  to  do  ; 

She  murmured,  "It  is  well." 


90 


SONGS   IN    MANY   KEYS. 


But  when  he  told  that  fearful  day, 

And  how  her  feet  were  led 
To  where  entombed  in  life  he  lay, 

The  breathing  with  the  dead, 

And  how  she  bruised  her  tender  breasts 

Against  the  crushing  stone, 
That  still  the  strong-armed  clown  pro- 
tests 

No  man  can  lift  alone,  — 

0  then  the  frozen  spring  was  broke  ; 
By  turns  she  wept  and  smiled  ;  — 

"  Sweet  Agnes  !  "  so  the  mother  spoke, 
"God  bless  my  angel  child  ! 

"She  saved  thee    from    the   jaws    of 

death,  — 
'T  is  thine  to  right  her  wrongs  ; 

1  tell  thee,  —  I,  who  gave  thee  breath,  — 

To  her  thy  life  belongs  !  " 

Thus  Agnes  won  her  noble  name, 

Her  lawless  lover's  hand  ; 
The  lowly  maiden  so  became 

A  lady  in  the  land  ! 

PART  SIXTH. 

CONCLUSION. 

THE  tale  is  done  ;  it  little  needs 

To  track  their  after  ways, 
And  string  again  the  golden  beads 

Of  love's  uncounted  days. 

They  leave  the  fair  ancestral  isle 
For  bleak  New  England's  shore  ; 

How  gracious  is  the  courtly  smile 
Of  all  who  frowned  before  ! 

Again  through  Lisbon's  orange  bowers 
They  watch  the  river's  gleam, 

And  shudder  as  her  shadowy  towers 
Shake  in  the  trembling  stream, 


Fate  parts  at  length  the  fondest  pair  ; 

His  cheek,  alas  !  grows  pale  ; 
The  breast  that  trampling  death  could 
spare 

His  noiseless  shafts  assail. 

He  longs  to  change  the  heaven  of  blue 
For  England's  clouded  sky,  • — 

To  breathe  the  air  his  boyhood  knew  ; 
He  seeks  them  but  to  die. 

—  Hard  by  the  terraced  hillside  town, 
Where  healing  streamlets  run, 

Still  sparkling  with  their  old  renown,  — 
The  "  Waters  of  the  Sun,"  — 

The  Lady  Agnes  raised  the  stone 
That  marks  his  honored  grave, 

And  there  Sir  Harry  sleeps  alone 
By  Wiltshire  Avon's  wave. 

The  home  of  early  love  was  dear  ; 

She  sought  its  peaceful  shade, 
And  kept  her  state  for  many  a  year, 

With  none  to  make  afraid. 

At  last  the  evil  days  were  come 
That  saw  the  red  cross  fall ; 

She  hears  the  rebels'  rattling  drum,  — 
Farewell  to  Frankland  Hall ! 

—  I  tell  you,  as  my  tale  began, 
The  Hall  is  standing  still ; 

And  you,  kind  listener,  maid  or  man, 
May  see  it  if  you  will. 

The  box  is  glistening  huge  and  green, 

Like  trees  the  lilacs  grow, 
Three  elms  high-arching  still  are  seen, 

And  one  lies  stretched  below. 

The  hangings,  rough  with  velvet  flowers, 

Flap  on  the  latticed  wall ; 
And  o'er  the  mossy  ridge-pole  towers 

The  rock-hewn  chimney  tall. 


THE   PLOUGHMAN. 


97 


The  doors  on  mighty  hinges  clash 

With  massive  bolt  and  bar, 
The  heavy  English-moulded  sash 

Scarce  can  the  night- winds  jar. 

Behold  the  chosen  room  he  sought 

Alone,  to  fast  and  pray, 
Each  year,  as  chill  November  brought 

The  dismal  earthquake  day. 

There  hung  the  rapier  blade  he  wore, 
Bent  in  its  flattened  sheath  ; 

The  coat  the  shrieking  woman  tore 
Caught  in  her  clenching  teeth  ;  — 

The  coat  with  tarnished  silver  lace 

She  snapped  at  as  she  slid, 
And  down  upon  her  death-white  face 

Crashed  the  huge  coffin's  lid. 

A  graded  terrace  yet  remains  ; 

If  on  its  turf  you  stand 
And  look  along  the  wooded  plains 

That  stretch  on  either  hand, 

The  broken  forest  walls  define 

A  dim,  receding  view, 
Where,  on  the  far  horizon's  line, 

He  cut  his  vista  through. 

If  further  story  you  shall  crave, 

Or  ask  for  living  proof, 
Go  see  old  Julia,  born  a  slave 

Beneath  Sir  Harry's  roof. 

She  told  me  half  that  I  have  told, 

And  she  remembers  well 
The  mansion  as  it  looked  of  old 

Before  its  glories  fell ;  — 

The  box,  when  round  the  terraced  square 

Its  glossy  wall  was  drawn  ; 
The  climbing  vines,  the  snow-balls  fair, 

The  roses  on  the  lawn. 


And  Julia  says,  with  truthful  look 
Stamped  on  her  wrinkled  face, 

That  in  her  own  black  hands  she  took 
The  coat  with  silver  lace. 

And  you  may  hold  the  story  light, 

Or,  if  you  like,  believe  ; 
But  there  it  was,  the  woman's  bite,  — 

A  mouthful  from  the  sleeve. 

Now  go  your  ways  ;  —  I  need  not  tell 

The  moral  of  my  rhyme  ; 
But,  youths  and  maidens,  ponder  well 

This  tale  of  olden  time  ! 


THE  PLOUGHMAN. 

ANNIVERSARY  OF  THE  BERKSHIRE  AG- 
RICULTURAL SOCIETY,    OCT.   4,  1849. 

CLEAR  the  brown  path,  to  meet  his  coul- 
ter's gleam  ! 

Lo  !  on  he  comes,  behind  his  smoking 
team, 

With  toil's  bright  dew-drops  on  his  sun- 
burnt brow, 

The  lord  of  earth,  the  hero  of  the  plough ! 

First  in  the  field  before  the  reddening 
sun, 

Last  in  the  shadows  when  the  day  ir 
done, 

Line  after  line,  along  the  bursting  sod, 

Marks  the  broad  acres  where  his  feet 
have  trod  ; 

Still,  where  he  treads,  the  stubborn  clods 
divide, 

The  smooth,  fresh  furrow  opens  deep  and 
wide  ; 

Matted  and  dense  the  tangled  turf  up- 
heaves, 

Mellow  and  dark  the  ridgy  cornfield 
cleaves  ; 

Up  the  steep  hillside,  where  the  labor- 
ing train 


SONGS   IN   MANY  KEYS. 


Slants  the  long  track  that  scores  the 
level  plain  ; 

Through  the  moist  valley,  clogged  with 
oozing  clay, 

The  patient  convoy  breaks  its  destined 
way; 

At  every  turn  the  loosening  chains  re- 
sound, 

The  swinging  ploughshare  circles  glisten- 
ing round, 

Till  the  wide  field  one  billowy  waste  ap- 
pears, 

And  wearied  hands  unbind  the  panting 
steers. 


These  are  the  hands  whose  sturdy  labor 

brings 
The  peasant's  food,  the  golden  pomp  of 

kings  ; 
This  is  the  page,  whose  letters  shall  be 

seen 
Changed  by  the  sun  to  words  of  living 

green  ; 

This  is  the  scholar,  whose  immortal  pen 
Spells  the  first  lesson  hunger  taught  to 

men  ; 

These  are  the  lines  which  heaven-com- 
manded Toil 
Shows  on  his  deed,  —  the  charter  of  the 

soil  ! 


0   gracious   Mother,   whose  benignant 

breast 

Wakes  us  to  life,  and  lulls  us  all  to  rest, 
How  thy  sweet  features,  kind  to  every 

clime, 
Mock  with  their  smile  the  wrinkled  front 

of  time  ! 
We  stain  thy  flowers,  —  they  blossom 

o'er  the  dead ; 
We  rend  thy  bosom,  and  it  gives  us 

bread  ; 
O'er  the  red  field  that  trampling  strife 

has  torn, 


Waves  the  green  plumage  of  thy  tasselled 
com  ; 

Our  maddening  conflicts  scar  thy  fairest 
plain, 

Still  thy  soft  answer  is  the  growing  grain. 

Yet,  O  our  Mother,  while  uncounted 
charms 

Steal  round  our  hearts  in  thine  embrac- 
ing arms, 

Let  not  our  virtues  in  thy  love  decay, 

And  thy  fond  sweetness  waste  our 
strength  away. 


No  !  by  these  hills,  whose  banners  now 
displayed 

In  blazing  cohorts  Autumn  has  arrayed  ; 

By  yon  twin  summits,  on  whose  splin- 
tery crests 

The  tossing  hemlocks  hold  the  eagles' 
nests  ; 

By  these  fair  plains  the  mountain  circle 
screens, 

And  feeds  with  streamlets  from  its  dark 
ravines,  — 

True  to  their  home,  these  faithful  arms 
shall  toil 

To  crown  with  peace  their  own  untainted 
soil ; 

And,  true  to  God,  to  freedom,  to  man- 
kind, 

If  her  chained  bandogs  Faction  shall 
unbind, 

These  stately  forms,  that  bending  even 
now 

Bowed  their  strong  manhood  to  the 
humble  plough, 

Shall  rise  erect,  the  guardians  of  the 
land, 

The  same  stern  iron  in  the  same  right 
hand, 

Till  o'er  their  hills  the  shouts  of  triumph 
run, 

The  sword  has  rescued  what  the  plough- 
share won  ! 


PICTURES   FROM   OCCASIONAL  POEMS. 


99 


PICTURES   FROM  OCCASIONAL  POEMS. 


185O-56. 


SPRING. 

WINTER  is  past ;  the  heart  of  Nature 

warms 

Beneath  the  wrecks  of  unresisted  storms ; 
Doubtful  at  first,  suspected  more  than 

seen, 
The   southern  slopes  are  fringed  with 

tender  green  ; 
On  sheltered  banks,  beneath  the  drip- 
ping eaves, 
Spring's  earliest  nurslings  spread  their 

glowing  leaves, 

Bright  with  the  hues  from  wider  pic- 
tures won, 
White,  azure,  golden,  —  drift,  or  sky, 

or  sun, — 
The  snowdrop,  bearing  on  her  patient 

breast 
The  frozen  trophy  torn  from  Winter's 

crest ; 

The  violet,  gazing  on  the  arch  of  blue 
Till  her  own  iris  wears  its  deepened  hue  ; 
The  spendthrift  crocus,  bursting  through 

the  mould 

Naked  and  shivering  with  his  cup  of  gold. 
Swelled  with  new  life,   the  darkening 

elm  on  high 
Prints  her  thick  buds  against  the  spotted 

sky  ; 
On  all  her  boughs  the  stately  chestnut 

cleaves 
The   gummy  shroud    that  wraps    her 

embryo  leaves ; 
The  house-fly,  stealing  from  his  narrow 

grave, 


Drugged  with  the  opiate  that  November 

gave, 
Beats  with  faint  wing  against  the  sunny 

pane, 

Or  crawls,  tenacious,  o'er  its  lucid  plain ; 
From  shaded  chinks  of  lichen-crusted 

walls, 
In  languid  curves,  the  gliding  serpent 

crawls  ; 
The  bog's  green  harper,  thawing  from 

his  sleep, 

Twangs  a  hoarse  note  and  tries  a  short- 
ened leap ; 
On  floating  rails  that  face  the  softening 

noons 
The  still  shy  turtles  range  their  dark 

platoons, 
Or,  toiling  aimless  o'er  the  mellowing 

fields, 
Trail  through  the  grass  their  tessellated 

shields. 

At  last  young  April,  ever  frail  and  fair, 
Wooed  by  her  playmate  with  the  golden 

hair, 

Chased  to  the  margin  of  receding  floods 
O'er  the  soft  meadows  starred  with  open- 
ing buds, 

In  tears  and  blushes  sighs  herself  away, 
And  hides  her  cheek  beneath  the  flowers 
of  May. 

Then  the  proud  tulip  lights  her  beacon 

blaze, 

Her  clustering  curls  the  hyacinth  dis- 
plays ; 


100 


SONGS   IN    MANY   KEYS. 


O'er  her  tall  blades  the  crested  fleur-de- 
lis, 

Like  blue-eyed  Pallas,  towers  erect  and 
free  ; 

With  yellower  flames  the  lengthened 
sunshine  glows, 

And  love  lays  bare  the  passion-breathing 
rose  ; 

Queen  of  the  lake,  along  its  reedy  verge 

The  rival  lily  hastens  to  emerge, 

Her  snowy  shoulders  glistening  as  she 
strips, 

Till  morn  is  sultan  of  her  parted  lips. 

Then  bursts  the  song  from  every  leafy 

glade, 

The  yielding  season's  bridal  serenade  ; 
Then  flash  the  wings  returning  Summer 

calls 
Through  the  deep  arches  of  her  forest 

halls,— 
The  bluebird,  breathing  from  his  azure 

plumes 
The  fragrance  borrowed  where  the  myrtle 

blooms ; 
The  thrush,   poor  wanderer,   dropping 

meekly  down, 

Clad  in  his  remnant  of  autumnal  brown ; 
The  oriole,  drifting  like  a  flake  of  fire 
Rent  by  a  whirlwind  from   a  blazing 

spire. 

The  robin,  jerking  his  spasmodic  throat, 
Repeats,  imperious,  his  staccato  note  ; 
The  crack-brained  bobolink  courts  his 

crazy  mate, 
Poised  on    a    bulrush  tipsy  with  his 

weight ; 

Nay,  in  his  cage  the  lone  canary  sings, 
Feels  the  soft  air,  and  spreads  his  idle 

wings. 

Why  dream  I  here  within  these  caging 

walls, 

Deaf  to  her  voice,  while  blooming  Na- 
ture calls; 


Peering  and  gazing  with  insatiate  looks 
Through  blinding  lenses,  or  in  wearying 

books  ? 
Off.  gloomy  spectres  of  the  shrivelled 

past! 
Fly  with  the  leaves  that  fill  the  autumn 

blast ! 
Ye   imps  of  Science,  whose  relentless 

chains 
Lock  the  warm  tides  within  these  living 

veins, 
Close  your  dim  cavern,  while  its  captive 

strays 
Dazzled  and  giddy   in  the   morning's 

blaze! 


THE  STUDY. 

YET  in  the  darksome  crypt  I  left  so 
late, 

Whose  only  altar  is  its  rusted  grate,  — 

Sepulchral,  rayless,  joyless  as  it  seems, 

Shamed  by  the  glare  of  May's  refulgent 
beams,  — 

While  the  dim  seasons  dragged  their 
shrouded  train, 

Its  paler  splendors  were  not  quite  in 
vain. 

From  these  dull  bars  the  cheerful  fire- 
light's glow 

Streamed  through  the  casement  o'er  the 
spectral  snow ; 

Here,  while  the  night-wind  wreaked  its 
frantic  will 

On  the  loose  ocean  and  the  rock-bound 
hill, 

Rent  the  cracked  topsail  from  its  quiver- 
ing yard, 

And  rived  the  oak  a  thousand  storms 
had  scarred, 

Fenced  by  these  walls  the  peaceful  taper 
shone, 

Nor  felt  a  breath  to  slant  its  trembling 


PICTURES   FROM   OCCASIONAL   POEMS. 


101 


Not  all  unblest  the  mild  interior  scene 
When  the  red  curtain  spread  its  falling 

screen  ; 
O'er  some  light  task  the  lonely  hours 

were  past, 

And  the  long  evening  only  flew  too  fast ; 
Or  the  wide  chair  its  leathern  amis  would 

lend 

In  genial  welcome  to  some  easy  friend, 
Stretched  on  its  bosom  with  relaxing 

nerves, 
Slow  moulding,   plastic,  to  its  hollow 

curves ; 
Perchance    indulging,    if   of   generous 

creed, 
In  brave  Sir  Walter's  dream-compelling 

weed. 
Or,  happier  still,  the  evening  hour  would 

bring 

To  the  round  table  its  expected  ring, 
And  while  the  punch-bowl's  sounding 

depths  were  stirred, — 
Its    silver    cherubs    smiling    as    they 

heard,  — 
Our  hearts  would  open,  as  at  evening's 

hour 

The  close-sealed  primrose  frees  its  hid- 
den flower. 

Such  the  warm  life  this  dim  retreat 

has  known, 
Not  quite  deserted  when  its  guests  were 

flown  ; 
Nay,  filled  with  friends,  an  unobtrusive 

set, 

Guiltless  of  calls  and  cards  and  etiquette, 
Ready  to  answer,  never  known  to  ask, 
Claiming  no  service,  prompt  for  every 

task. 

On  those  dark  shelves  no  housewife 

hand  profanes, 

O'er  his  mute  files  the  monarch  folio 
reigns ; 


A  mingled  race,  the  wreck  of  chance 

and  time, 
That  talk  all  tongues  and  breathe  of 

every  clime, 
Each  knows  his  place,  and  each  may 

claim  his  part 
In  some  quaint  corner  of  his  master's 

heart. 
This  old   Decretal,    won  from   Kloss's 

hoards, 
Thick  -  leaved ,    brass  -  cornered,    ribbed 

with  oaken  boards, 
Stands  the  gray  patriarch  of  the  graver 

rows, 
Its  fourth  ripe  century  narrowing  to  its 

close ; 
Not  daily  conned,  but  glorious  still  to 

view, 
With  glistening  letters  wrought  in  red 

and  blue. 
There    towers    Stagira's    all-embracing 

sage, 

The  Aldine  anchor  on  his  opening  page ; 
There  sleep  the  births  of  Plato's  heavenly 

mind, 

In  yon  dark  tomb  by  jealous  clasps  con- 
fined, 

"Olim  e  libris"  (dare  I  call  it  mine  ?) 
Of  Yale's  grave  Head  and  Killingworth's 

divine ! 
In  those  square  sheets  the  songs  of  Maro 

fill 
The  silvery  types  of  smooth-leaved  Bas- 

kerville  ; 

High  over  all,  in  close,  compact  array, 
Their  classic  wealth  the  Elzevirs  display. 
In  lower  regions  of  the  sacred  space 
Range  the  dense  volumes  of  a  humbler 

race ; 

There  grim  chirurgeons  all  their  mys- 
teries teach, 
In    spectral    pictures,    or    in    crabbed 

speech ; 
Harvey  and  Haller,  fresh  from  Nature's 

page, 


102 


SONGS  IN   MANY  KEYS. 


Shoulder  the  dreamers  of  an  earlier  age, 
Lully  and  Geber,  and  the  learned  crew 
That  loved  to  talk  of  all  they  could  not 

do. 
Why  count  the  rest,  —  those  names  of 

later  days 
That   many    love,    and    all    agree    to 

praise,  — 
Or  point  the,  titles,  where  a  glance  may 

read 

The  dangerous  lines  of  party  or  of  creed  ? 
Too  well,    perchance,    the   chosen   list 

would  show 
What  few  may  care  and  none  can  claim 

to  know. 

Each  has  his  features,  whose  exterior  seal 
A  brush  may  copy,  or  a  sunbeam  steal ; 
Go  to  his  study,  —  on  the  nearest  shelf 
Stands  the  mosaic  portrait  of  himself. 

What  though  for  months  the  tranquil 
dust  descends, 

Whitening  the  heads  of  these  mine  an- 
cient friends, 

While  the  damp  offspring  of  the  modern 
press 

Flaunts  on  my  table  with  its  pictured 
dress  ; 

Not  less  I  love  each  dull  familiar  face, 

!Nor  less  should  miss  it  from  the  ap- 
pointed place ; 

I  snatch  the  book,  along  whose  burning 
leaves 

His  scarlet  web  our  wild  romancer 
weaves, 

Yet,  while  proud  Hester's  fiery  pangs  I 
share, 

My  old  MAGNALIA  must  be  standing 
there  ! 

THE  BELLS. 

WHEN  o'er  the  street  the  morning  peal 

is  flung 

From  yon  tall  belfry  with  the  brazen 
tongue, 


Its  wide  vibrations,  wafted  by  the  gale, 

To  each  far  listener  tell  a  different  tale. 

The  sexton,  stooping  to  the  quivering 

floor 
Till  the  great  caldron  spills  its  brassy^ 

roar, 
Whirls  the  hot  axle,  counting,  one  by 

one, 
Each  dull  concussion,  till  his  task  is 

done. 

Toil's  patient  daughter,  when  the  wel- 
come note 
Clangs   through  the   silence  from   the 

steeple's  throat, 
Streams,  a  white  unit,  to  the  checkered 

street, 
Demure,  but  guessing  whom  she  soon 

shall  meet  ; 

The  bell,  responsive  to  her  secret  flame, 
With   every  note    repeats   her   lover's 

name. 
The  lover,  tenant  of  the  neighboring 

lane, 

Sighing,  and  fearing  lest  he  sigh  in  vain, 
Hears  the  stern  accents,  as  they  come 

and  go, 

Their  only  burden  one  despairing  No  ! 
Ocean's  rough  child,  whom  many  a 

shore  has  known 
Ere  homeward  breezes  swept  him  to  his 

own, 

Starts  at  the  echo  as  it  circles  round, 
A  thousand  memories  kindling  with  the 

sound  ; 

The  early  favorite's  unforgotten  charms, 
Whose   blue   initials   stain    his   tawny 

arms  ; 
His  first  farewell,  the  flapping  canvas 

spread, 

The  seaward  streamers  crackling  over- 
head, 
His  kind,  pale  mother,  not  ashamed  to 

weep 
Her  first-born's  bridal  with  the  haggard 

deep, 


PICTURES   FKOM   OCCASIONAL   POEMS. 


103 


While  the  brave  father  stood  with  tear- 
less eye, 
Smiling  and  choking  with  his  last  good- 

by. 

T  is  but  a  wave,  whose  spreading  cir- 
cle beats, 

With  the  same  impulse,  every  nerve  it 
meets, 

Yet  who  shall  count  the  varied  shapes 
that  ride 

On  the  round  surge  of  that  aerial  tide  ! 

0  child  of  earth  !     If  floating  sounds 

like  these 
Steal  from  thyself  their  power  to  wound 

or  please, 

If  here  or  there  thy  changing  will  in- 
clines, 
As  the  bright  zodiac  shifts  its  rolling 

signs, 
Look  at  thy  heart,  and  when  its  depths 

are  known 
Then  try  thy  brother's,  judging  by  thine 

own, 
But  keep  thy  wisdom  to  the  narrower 

range, 
While  its  own  standards  are  the  sport  of 

change, 

Nor  count  us  rebels  when  we  disobey 
The  passing  breath  that  holds  thy  p 

sion's  sway. 


NON-RESISTANCE. 

PERHAPS  too  far  in  these  considerate 

days 
Has    patience   carried    her   submissive 

ways; 
Wisdom  has  taught  us  to  be  calm  and 

meek, 
To  take  one  blow,  and  turn  the  other 

cheek  ; 

It  is  not  written  what  a  man  shall  do, 
If  the  rude  caitiff  smite  the  other  too  ! 


Land  of  our  fathers,  in  thine,  hour  of 
need 

God  help  thee,  guarded  by  the  passive 
creed ! 

As  the  lone  pilgrim  trusts  to  beads  and 
cowl, 

When  through  the  forest  rings  the  gray 
wolfs  howl ; 

As  the  deep  galleon  trusts  her  gilded 
prow 

When  the  black  corsair  slants  athwart 
her  bow  ; 

As  the  poor  pheasant,  with  his  peaceful 
mien, 

Trusts  to  his  feathers,  shining  golden- 
green, 

When  the  dark  plumage  with  the  crim- 
son beak 

Has  rustled  shadowy  from  its  splintered 
peak, — 

So  trust  thy  friends,  whose   babbling 
tongues  would  charm 

The  lifted  sabre  from  thy  foeman's  arm, 

Thy  torches  ready  for  the  answering  peal 

From    bellowing    fort    and    thunder- 
freighted  keel  ! 


THE  MORAL  BULLY. 

YON  whey-faced  brother,  who  delights 

to  wear 

A  weedy  flux  of  ill-conditioned  hair, 
Seems  of  the  sort  that  in  a  crowded 

place 

One  elbows  freely  into  smallest  space : 
A  timid  creature,  lax  of  knee  and  hip, 
Whom  small  disturbance  whitens  round 

the  lip  ; 

One  of  those  harmless  spectacled  ma- 
chines, 

The  Holy- Week  of  Protestants  convenes ; 
Whom  school-boys  question  if  their  walk 

transcends 
The  last  advices  of  maternal  friends ; 


104 


SONGS   IN   MANY  KEYS. 


Whom  John,  obedient  to  his  master's 

sign, 

Conducts,  laborious,  up  to  ninety-nine, 
"While  Peter,  glistening  with  luxurious 

scorn, 
Husks  his  white  ivories  like  an  ear  of 

corn  ; 
Dark  in  the  brow  and  bilious  in  the 

cheek, 
"Whose  yellowish  linen  flowers  but  once 

a  week, 
Conspicuous,  annual,  in  their  threadbare 

suits, 
And  the  laced  high-lows  which  they  call 

their  boots 
"Well  mayst  thou  shun  that  dingy  front 

severe, 
But  him,  O  stranger,  him  thou  canst  not 

fear  ! 

Be  slow  to  judge,  and  slower  to  de- 
spise, 
Man    of   broad    shoulders   and    heroic 

size  ! 

The  tiger,  writhing  from  the  boa's  rings, 
Drops  at  the  fountain  where  the  cobra 

stings. 
In  that  lean  phantom,  whose  extended 

glove 

Points  to  the  text  of  universal  love, 
Behold  the  master  that  can  tame  thee 

down 
To  crouch,  the   vassal  of  his   Sunday 

frown  ; 
His  velvet  throat  against  thy  corded 

wrist, 
His  loosened  tongue  against  thy  doubled 

fist! 


The  MORAL  BULLY,  though  he  never 
swears, 

Nor  kicks  intruders  down  his  entry 
stairs, 

Though  meekness  plants  his  backward- 
sloping  hat, 


And  non-resistance  ties  his  white  cravat, 

Though  his  black  broadcloth  glories  to 
be  seen 

In  the  same  plight  with  Shylock's  gaber- 
dine, 

Hugs  the  same  passion  to  his  narrow 
breast 

That  heaves  the  cuirass  on  the  trooper's 
chest, 

Hears  the  same  hell-hounds  yelling  in 
his  rear 

That  chase  from  port  the  maddened  buc- 
caneer, 

Feels  the  same  comfort  while  his  acrid 
words 

Turn  the  sweet  milk  of  kindness  into 
curds, 

Or  with  grim  logic  prove,  beyond  de- 
bate, 

That  all  we  love  is  worthiest  of  our 
hate, 

As  the  scarred  ruffian  of  the  pirate's 
deck, 

When  his  long  swivel  rakes  the  stagger- 
ing wreck  ! 

Heaven  keep  us  all  !  Is  every  rascal 
clown 

Whose  arm  is  stronger  free  to  knock  us 
down  ? 

Has  every  scarecrow,  whose  cachectic 
soul 

Seems  fresh  from  Bedlam,  airing  on  pa- 
role, 

Who,  though  he  carries  but  a  doubtful 
trace 

Of  angel  visits  on  his  hungry  face, 

From  lack  of  marrow  or  the  coins  to 

pay, 

Has   dodged  some   vices   in  a  shabby 

way, 
The  right  to  stick  us  with  his  cutthroat 

terms, 
And  bait  his  homilies  with  his  brother 

worms  ? 


PICTURES   FROM   OCCASIONAL   POEMS. 


105 


THE  MIND'S  DIET. 

No  life  worth  naming  ever  comes  to 

good 
If   alxvays   nourished   on   the  selfsame 

food ; 

The  creeping  mite  may  live  so  if  he  please, 
And  feed  on  Stilton  till  he  turns  to  cheese, 
But  cool  Magendie  proves  beyond  a 

doubt, 
If  mammals  try  it,  that  their  eyes  drop 

out. 


No  reasoning  natures  find  it  safe  to 

feed, 

For  their  sole  diet,  on  a  single  creed  ; 
It  spoils  their  eyeballs  while  it  spares 

their  tongues, 
And  starves  the  heart  to  feed  the  noisy 

lungs. 

When  the  first  larvae  on  the  elm  are 

seen, 
The  crawling  wretches,  like  its  leaves, 

are  green  ; 

Ere  chill  October  shakes  the  latest  down, 
They,  like  the  foliage,  change  their  tint 

to  brown  ; 

On  the  blue  flower  a  bluer  flower  you  spy, 
You  stretch  to  pluck  it  —  't  is  a  butter- 

fly; 

The  flattened  tree-toads  so  resemble  bark, 
They  're  hard  to  find  as  Ethiops  in  the 

dark  ; 
The  woodcock,    stiffening  to  fictitious 

mud, 
Cheats  the  young  sportsman  thirsting  for 

his  blood ; 

So  by  long  living  on  a  single  lie, 
Nay,  on  one  truth,  will  creatures  get  its 

dye; 

Red,  yellow,  green,  they  take  their  sub- 
ject's hue.  — 
Except  when   squabbling    turns   them 

black  and  blue  ! 


OUR  LIMITATIONS. 

WE  trust  and  fear,  we  question  and 

believe, 
From   life's  dark   threads  a  trembling 

faith  to  weave, 
Frail  as  the  web  that  misty  night  has 

spun, 
Whose  dew-gemmed  awnings  glitter  in 

the  sun. 

While  the  calm  centuries  spell  their  les- 
sons out, 
Each  truth  we  conquer  spreads  the  realm 

of  doubt ; 
When   Sinai's   summit   was   Jehovah's 

throne, 
The  chosen    Prophet    knew   his  voice 

alone  ; 
When  Pilate's  hall  that  awful  question 

heard, 
The  Heavenly  Captive  answered  not  a 

word. 


Eternal  Truth  !  beyond  our  hopes  and 

fears 
Sweep  the  vast  orbits  of  thy  myriad 

spheres  ! 
From  age  to  age,  while  History  carves 

sublime 
On  her  waste  rock  the  flaming  curves  of 

time, 
How  the  wild  swayings  of  our  planet 

show 
That  worlds  unseen  surround  the  world 

we  know. 


THE  OLD  PLAYER. 

THE  curtain  rose ;  in  thunders  long 

and  loud 
The  galleries  rung;  the  veteran   actor 

bowed. 

In  flaming  line  the  telltales  of  the  stage 
Showed  on  his  brow  the  autograph  of 

age; 


106 


SONGS   IN   MANY   KEYS. 


Pale,  hueless  waves  amid  his  clustered 

hair, 
And  umbered  shadows,   prints   of  toil 

and  care ; 
Round  the  wide  circle  glanced  his  vacant 

eye,  — 
He  strove  to  speak,  —  his  voice  was  but 

a  sigh. 

Year  after  year  had  seen  its  short- 
lived race 
Flit  past  the  scenes  and  others  take  their 

place ; 
Yet  the  old  prompter  watched  his  accents 

still, 
His  name  still  flaunted  on  the  evening's 

bill. 

Heroes,  the  monarchs  of  the  scenic  floor, 
Had  died  in  earnest  and  were  heard  no 

more; 
Beauties,    whose    cheeks    such  roseate 

bloom  o'erspread 
They  faced  the  footlights  in  unborrowed 

red, 
Had  faded   slowly  through   successive 

shades 

To  gray  duennas,  foils  of  younger  maids ; 
Sweet  voices  lost  the  melting  tones  that 

start 
With  Southern  throbs  the  sturdy  Saxon 

heart, 
While  fresh  sopranos  shook  the  painted 

sky 
With  their  long,  breathless,  quivering 

locust-cry. 
Yet  there  he  stood,  —  the  man  of  other 

days, 
In  the  clear  present's  full,   unsparing 

blaze, 

As  on  the  oak  a  faded  leaf  that  clings 
While  a  new  April  spreads  its  burnished 

wings. 


How  bright  yon  rows  that  soared  in 
triple  tier, 


Their  central  sun  the  flashing  chandelier ! 
How  dim  the  eye  that  sought  with 

doubtful  aim 
Some  friendly  smile  it  still  might  dare 

to  claim ! 
How  fresh  these  hearts  !  his  own  how 

worn  and  cold ! 
Such  the  sad  thoughts  that  long-drawn 

sigh  had  told. 
No  word  yet  faltered  on  his  trembling 

tongue ; 

Again,  again,  the  crashing  galleries  rung. 
As  the  old  guardsman  at  the  bugle's  blast 
Hears  in  its  strain  the  echoes  of  the  past ; 
So,  as  the  plaudits  rolled  and  thundered 

round, 

A  life  of  memories  startled  at  the  sound. 
He  lived  again,  —  the  page  of  earliest 

days,  — 
Days    of   small    fee   and   parsimonious 

praise  ; 
Then  lithe  young  Romeo  — hark  that 

silvered  tone, 
From   those   smooth   lips  —  alas  !    they 

were  his  own. 
Then  the  bronzed  Moor,   with  all  his 

love  and  woe, 

Told  his  strange  tale  of  midnight  melt- 
ing snow ; 
And   dark-plumed    Hamlet,    with    his 

cloak  and  blade, 
Looked  on  the  royal  ghost,  himself  a 

shade. 
All  in  one  flash,  his  youthful  memories 

came, 
Traced  in   bright  hues   of   evanescent 

flame, 
As  the  spent  swimmer's  in  the  lifelong 

dream, 
While  the  last  bubble  rises  through  the 

stream. 


Call  him  not  old,   whose  visionary 

brain 
Holds  o'er  the  past  its  undivided  reign. 


PICTURES   FROM   OCCASIONAL  POEMS. 


107 


For  him  in  vain  the  envious  seasons  roll 
Who  bears  eternal  summer  in  his  soul. 
If  yet  the  minstrel's  song,  the  poet's  lay, 
Spring  with  her  birds,  or  children  at 

their  play, 
Or  maiden's  smile,  or  heavenly  dream 

of  art, 
Stir  the  few  life-drops  creeping  round 

his  heart, 
Turn  to  the  record  where  his  years  are 

told,  — 
Count    his   gray  hairs,  —  they   cannot 

make  him  old ! 
What  magic  power  has  changed  the 

faded  mime  ? 
One  breath  of  memory  on  the  dust  of 

time. 

As  the  last  window  in  the  buttressed  wall 
Of  some  gray  minster  tottering  to  its  fall, 
Though  to  the  passing  crowd  its  hues 

are  spread, 

A  dull  mosaic,  yellow,  green,  and  red, 
Viewed   from  within,   a  radiant  glory 

shows 
When  through  its  pictured  screen  the 

sunlight  flows, 

And  kneeling  pilgrims  on  its  storied  pane 
See  angels  glow  in  every  shapeless  stain  ; 
So  streamed  the  vision  through  his 

sunken  eye, 

Clad  in  the  splendors  of  his  morning  sky. 
All  the  wild  hopes  his  eager  boyhood 

knew, 
All  the  young  fancies  riper  years  proved 

true, 
The  sweet,   low-whispered  words,   the 

winning  glance 
From  queens  of  song,  from  Houris  of 

the  dance, 
Wealth's    lavish    gift,    and    Flattery's 

soothing  phrase, 
A.nd  Beauty's  silence  when  her  blush 

was  praise, 
A.nd  melting  Pride,  her  lashes  wet  with 

tears, 


Triumphs  and  banquets,   wreaths   and 

crowns  and  cheers, 
Pangs  of  wild  joy  that  perish  on  the 

tongue, 
And  all  that  poets  dream,   but  leave 

unsung ! 

In  every  heart  some  viewless  founts 

are  fed 
From  far-off  hillsides  where  the  dews 

were  shed ; 

On  the  worn  features  of  the  weariest  face 
Some  youthful  memory  leaves  its  hidden 

trace, 

As  in  old  gardens  left  by  exiled  kings 
The  marble  basins  tell  of  hidden  springs, 
But,  gray  with  dust,  and  overgrown  with 

weeds, 

Their  choking  jets  the  passer  little  heeds, 
Till  time's  revenges  break  their  seals 

away, 
And,  clad  in  rainbow  light,  the  waters 

play. 

Good  night,  fond  dreamer!  let  the 

curtain  fall: 
The  world  's  a  stage,  and  we  are  players 

all. 
A   strange  rehearsal!      Kings  without 

their  crowns, 

And  threadbare  lords,  and  jewel-wear- 
ing clowns, 
Speak  the  vain  words  that  mock  their 

throbbing  hearts, 
As  Want,  stern  prompter!  spells  them 

out  their  parts. 

The  tinselled  hero  whom  we  praise  and  pay 
Is  twice  an  actor  in  a  twofold  play. 
We  smile  at  children  when  a  painted 

screen 

Seems  to  their  simple  eyes  a  real  scene ; 
Ask  the  poor  hireling,  who  has  left  his 

throne 
To  seek  the  cheerless  home  he  calls  his 

own, 


108 


SONGS  IN  MANY  KEYS. 


Which  of  his  double  lives  most  real 

seems, 

The  world  of  solid  fact  or  scenic  dreams  ? 
Canvas,  or  clouds,  —  the  footlights,  or 

the  spheres,  — 
The  play  of  two  short  hours,  or  seventy 

years? 
Dream  on !    Though  Heaven  may  woo 

our  open  eyes, 
Through  their  closed  lids  we  look  on 

fairer  skies; 
Truth  is  for  other  worlds,  and  hope  for 

this ; 
The  cheating  future  lends  the  present's 

bliss ; 
Life  is  a  running  shade,  with  fettered 

hands, 
That   chases    phautoms    over    shifting 

sands; 

Death  a  still  spectre  on  a  marble  seat, 
With  ever  clutching  palms  and  shackled 

feet ; 
The  airy  shapes  that  mock  life's  slender 

chain, 

The  flying  joys  he  strives  to  clasp  in  vain, 
Death  only  grasps;  to  live  is  to  pur- 
sue, — 
Dream  on !  there  'a  nothing  but  illusion 

true! 


THE  ISLAND  RUIN. 


YE  that  have  faced  the  billows  and 

the  spray 
Of  good  St.    Botolph's  island-studded 

bay, 
As  from  the  gliding  bark  your  eye  has 

scanned 
The  beaconed  rocks,  the  wave-girt  hills 

of  sand, 
Have  ye  not  marked  one  elm-o'ershad- 

owed  isle, 
Round  as  the  dimple  chased  in  beauty's 

smile,  — 


A  stain  of  verdure  on  an  azure  field, 

Set  like  a  jewel  in  a  battered  shield? 

Fixed  in  the  narrow  gorge  of  Ocean's 
path, 

Peaceful  it  meets  him  in  his  hour  of 
wrath ; 

When  the  mailed  Titan,   scourged  by 
hissing  gales, 

Writhes  in  his  glistening  coat  cf  clash- 
ing scales ; 

The  storm-beat  island  spreads  its  tran- 
quil green, 

Calm  as  an  emerald  on  an  angry  queen. 
So  fair  when  distant  should  be  fairer 
near; 

A  boat   shall   waft  us   from  the   out- 
stretched pier. 

The  breeze  blows  fresh;  we  reach  the 
island's  edge, 

Our  shallop  rustling  through  the  yield- 
ing sedge. 
No  welcome  greets  us  on  the  desert 


Those  elms,  far-shadowing,  hide  no 
stately  pile: 

Yet  these  green  ridges  mark  an  ancient 
road; 

And  lo  !  the  traces  of  a  fair  abode  ; 

The  long  gray  line  that  marks  a  garden* 
wall, 

And  heaps  of  fallen  beams,  —  fire- 
branded  all. 


Who  sees  unmoved,  a  ruin  at  his  feet, 
The  lowliest  home  where  human  heart* 

have  beat  ? 
Its  hearthstone,  shaded  with  the  bistre 

stain 
A  century's  showery  torrents  wash  in 

vain  ; 
Its  starving  orchard,  where  the  thistle 

blows 
And  mossy  trunks  still  mark  the  broken 

rows; 
Its  chimney-loving  poplar,  oftenest  seen 


PICTURES  FROM  OCC4SIONAL  POEMS. 


109 


If  ext  an  old  roof,  or  where  a  roof  has 

been; 
Its  knot-grass,  plantain,  —  all  the  social 

weeds, 
Man's  mute  companions,  following  where 

he  leads  ; 
Its  dwarfed,  pale  flowers,  that  show  their 

straggling  heads, 
Sown  by  the  wind  from  grass-choked 

garden-beds ; 
Its  woodbine,  creeping  where  it  used  to 

climb ; 

Its  roses,  breathing  of  the  olden  time  ; 
All  the  poor  shows  the  curious  idler  sees, 
As  life's  thin  shadows  waste  by  slow 


Till  naught  remains,  the  saddening  tale 

to  tell, 
Save  home's  last  wrecks,  —  the   cellar 

and  the  well ! 

And  whose  the  home  that  strews  in 

black  decay 

The  one  green -glowing  island  of  the  bay  ? 
Some  dark-browed   pirate's,  jealous  of 

the  fate 
That  seized    the    strangled  wretch   of 


Some  forger's,  skulking  in  a  borrowed 

name, 
Whom   Tyburn's  dangling    halter  yet 

may  claim? 

Some  wan-eyed  exile's,  wealth  and  sor- 
row's heir, 
Who  sought  a  lone  retreat  for  tears  and 

prayer  ? 
Some  brooding  poet's,  sure  of  deathless 

fame, 

Had  not  his  epic  perished  in  the  flame  ? 
Or  some  gray  wooer's,  whom  a  girlish 

frown 
Chased  from  his  solid  friends  and  sober 

town  ? 
Or  some  plain  tradesman's,  fond  of  shade 

and  ease, 


Who  sought  them  both  beneath  these 

quiet  trees  ? 
Why  question  mutes  no  question  can 

unlock, 

Dumb  as  the  legend  on  the  Dighton  rock? 
One  thing  at  least  these  ruined  heaps 

declare,  — 
They  were  a  shelter  once  ;  a  man  lived 

there. 

But  where  the  charred  and  crumbling 
records  fail, 

Some  breathing  lips  may  piece  the  half- 
told  tale; 

No  man  may  live  with  neighbors  such 
as  these, 

Though  girt  with  walls  of  rock  and  angry 
seas, 

And  shield  his  home,  his  children,  or 
his  wife, 

His  ways,  his  means,  his  vote,  his  creed, 
his  life, 

From  the  dread  sovereignty  of  Ears  and 
Eyes 

And  the  small  member  that  beneath 

them  lies. 

They  told  strange  things  of  that  mys- 
terious man ; 

Believe  who  will,  deny  them  such  as  can ; 

Why  should  we  fret  if  every  passing  sail 

Had  its  old  seaman  talking  on  the  rail  ? 

The   deep-sunk  schooner  stuffed  with 
Eastern  lime, 

Slow  wedging  on,  as  if  the  waves  were 
slime ; 

The  knife-edged  clipper  with  her  ruffled 


The  pawing  steamer  with  her  mane  of 

stars, 
The  bull-browed  galliot  butting  through 

the  stream, 
The  wide-sailed  yacht  that  slipped  along 

her  beam, 
The  deck-piled  sloops,  the  pinched  die- 

bacco-boats, 


110 


SONGS   IN   MANY  KEYS. 


The  frigate,  black  with  thunder-freighted 

throats, 

All  had  their  talk  about  the  lonely  man  ; 
And  thus,  in  varying  phrase,  the  story 

ran. 
His  name  had  cost  him  little  care  to 

seek, 
Plain,  honest,  brief,  a  decent  name  to 

speak, 
Common,  not  vulgar,  just  the  kind  that 

slips 
With  least  suggestion  from  a  stranger's 

lips. 
His  birthplace  England,  as  his  speech 

might  show, 

Or  his  hale  cheek,  that  wore  the  red- 
streak's  glow ; 
His  mouth  sharp-moulded  ;  in  its  mirth 

or  scorn 

There  came  aflash  as  from  the  milky  corn, 
When  from  the  ear  you  rip  the  rustling 

sheath, 
And  the  white  ridges  show  their  even 

teeth. 
His  stature  moderate,  but  his  strength 

confessed, 
In  spite  of  broadcloth,   by  his  ample 

breast ; 
Full-armed,    thick-handed ;    one    that 

had  been  strong, 
And  miglit  be  dangerous  still,  if  things 

went  wrong. 
He  lived  at  ease  beneath  his  elm-trees' 

shade, 
Did  naught  for  gain,  yet  all  his  debts 

were  paid; 
Rich,  so  't  was  thought,  but  careful  of 

his  store ; 
Had  all  he  needed,  claimed  to  have  no 

more. 


But  some  that  lingered  round  the  isle 

at  night 

Spoke  of  strange  stealthy  doings  in  their 
sight ; 


Of  creeping  lonely  visits  that  he  made 
To  nooks  and  comers,  with  a  torch  and 

spade. 

Some  said  they  saw  the  hollow  of  a  cave ; 
One,  given  to  fables,  swore  it  was  a  grave; 
Whereat  some  shuddered,  others  boldly 

cried, 
Those  prowling  boatmen  lied,  and  knew 

they  lied. 
They  said  his  house  was  framed  with 

curious  cares, 

Lest  some  old  friend  might  enter  un- 
awares ; 
That  on  the  platform  at  his  chamber's 

door 
Hinged    a    loose    square    that  opened 

through  the  floor; 
Touch  the  black  silken  tassel  next  the 

bell, 

Down,  with  a  crash,  the  flapping  trap- 
door fell; 
Three  stories   deep  the  falling  wretch 

would  strike, 
To  writhe  at  leisure  on  a  boarder's  pike. 
By  day  armed  always ;  double-armed 

at  night, 
His  tools  lay  round  him;   wake  him 

such  as  might. 
A  carbine  hung  beside  his  India  fan, 
His  hand  could  reach  a  Turkish  ataghan ; 
Pistols,  with  quaint-carved  stocks  and 

barrels  gilt, 
Crossed  a  long  dagger  with  a  jewelled 

hilt; 
A  slashing  cutlass  stretched  along  the 

bed;  — 
All  this  was  what  those  lying  boatmen 

said. 

Then  some  were  full  of  wondrous  sto- 
ries told 
Of  great  oak  chests  and  cupboards  full  of 

gold; 
Of  the  wedged  ingots  and  the   silvei 

bars 
That  cost  old  pirates  ugly  sabre-scars ; 


PICTUKES   FKOM   OCCASIONAL   POEMS. 


Ill 


How  his  laced  wallet  often  would  dis- 
gorge 

The  fresh-faced  guinea  of  an  English 
George, 

Or  sweated  ducat,  palmed  by  Jews  of 
yore, 

Or  double  Joe,  or  Portuguese  moidore, 

And  how  his  finger  wore  a  rubied  ring 

Fit  for  the  white-necked  play-girl  of  a 
king. 

But  these  fine  legends,  told  with  staring 
eyes, 

Met  with  small  credence  from  the  old 
and  wise. 

Why  tell  each  idle  guess,  each  whisper 
vain? 

Enough :  the  scorched  and  cindered 
beams  remain. 

He  came,  a  silent  pilgrim  to  the  West, 

Some  old-world  mystery  throbbing  in 
his  breast ; 

Close  to  the  thronging  mart  he  dwelt 
alone ; 

He  lived  ;  he  died.  The  rest  is  all  un- 
known. 


Stranger,  whose  eyes  the  shadowy  isle 

survey, 
As  the  black  steamer  dashes  through 

the  bay, 

Why  ask  his  buried  secret  to  divine  ? 
He  was  thy  brother ;  speak,  and  tell  us 

thine  ! 


THE  BANKER'S  DINNER. 


THE  Banker's  dinner  is  the  stateliest 

feast 
The  town  has  heard  of  for  a  year,  at 

least ; 
The  sparry  lustres  shed  their  broadest 

blaze, 
Damask  and  silver  catch  and  spread  the 

rays ; 


The  florist's  triumphs  crown  the  daintier 
spoil 

Won  from  the  sea,  the  forest,  or  the  soil ; 

The  steaming  hot-house  yields  its  largest 
pines, 

The  sunless  vaults  unearth  their  oldest 
wines ; 

With  one  admiring  look  the  scene  sur- 
vey, 

And  turn  a  moment  from  the  bright  dis- 
play. 

Of  all  the  joys  of  earthly  pride  or 

power, 
What  gives  most  life,  worth  living,  in 

an  hour  ? 
When  Victory  settles  on  the  doubtful 

fight 
And  the  last  foeman  wheels  in  panting 

flight, 
No  thrill  like  this  is  felt  beneath  the 


Life's  sovereign  moment  is  a  battle  won. 
But  say  what  next  ?    To  shape  a  Senate's 

choice, 
By  the  strong  niagic  of  the  master's 

voice ; 

To  ride  the  stormy  tempest  of  debate 
That  whirls  the  wavering  fortunes  of  the 

state. 
Third  in  the  list,  the  happy  lover's 

prize 
Is  won  by  honeyed  words  from  women's 

eyes. 
If  some  would  have  it  first  instead  of 

third, 

So  let  it  be,  —  I  answer  not  a  word. 
The  fourth,  —  sweet  readers,  let  the 

thoughtless  half 
Have  its  small  shrug  and  inoffensive 

laugh ; 
Let  the  grave  quarter  wear  its  virtuous 

frown, 
The  stern  half-quarter  try  to  scowl  us 

down; 


112 


SONGS   IN   MANY  KEYS. 


But  the  last  eighth,  the  choice  and 
sifted  few, 

Will  hear  my  words,  and,  pleased,  con- 
fess them  true. 

Among  the  great  whom  Heaven  has 

made  to  shine, 
How  few  have  learned  the  art  of  arts,  -  - 

to  dine ! 

Nature,  indulgent  to  our  daily  need, 
Kind-hearted  mother !  taught  us  all  to 

feed ; 
But  the  chief  art,  —  how  rarely  Nature 

flings 
This    choicest  gift  among    her    social 

kings! 
Say,  man  of  truth,  has  life  a  brighter 

hour 
Than  waits  the  chosen  guest  who  knows 

his  power  ? 
He  moves  with  ease,  itself  an  angel 

charm,  — 
Lifts  with  light  touch  my  lady's  jewelled 

arm, 
Slides  to  his  seat,  half  leading  and  half 

led, 

Smiling  but  quiet  till  the  grace  is  said, 
Then  gently  kindles,  while  by  slow  de- 
grees 
Creep  softly  out  the  little  arts    that 

please ; 
Bright  looks,  the  cheerful  language  of 

the  eye, 
The  neat,  crisp  question  and  the  gay 

reply, — 
Talk  light  and  airy,  such  as  well  may 

pass 
Between   the    rested    fork    and    lifted 

glass; — 
With  play  like  this  the  earlier  evening 

flies, 
Till  rustling  silks  proclaim  the  ladies 

rise. 
His  hour  has  come,  - —  he  looks  along 

the  chairs, 


As  the  Great  Duke  surveyed  his  iron 
squares. 

—  That 's  the  young  traveller,  —  is  n't 

much  to  show,  — 
Fast  on  the  road,  but  at  the  table  slow. 

—  Next  him,  —  you  see  the  author  in 

his  look,  — 
His  forehead  lined  with  wrinkles  like  & 

book,  — 
Wrote  the  great  history  of  the  ancient 

Huns,  — 
Holds  back  to  fire  among  the   heavy 

guns. 

—  0,  there  's  our  poet  seated  at  his  side, 
Beloved  of  ladies,  soft,  cerulean-eyed. 
Poets  are  prosy  in  their  common  talk, 
As  the  fast  trotters,  for  the  most  part, 

walk. 

—  And  there  's  our  well-dressed  gentle- 

man, who  sits, 
By  right  divine,  no  doubt,  among  the 

wits, 
Who  airs  his  tailor's  patterns  when  he 

walks, 
The  man  that  often  speaks,  but  never 

talks. 
Why  should  he  talk,   whose   presence 


To  every  table  where  he  shows  his  face  ? 

He  knows  the  manual  of  the  silver  fork, 

Can  name  his  claret  —  if  he  sees  the 
cork,  — 

Remark  that  "White-top"  was  consid- 
ered fine, 

But  swear  the  "Juno "  is  the  better 
wine  ;  — 

Is  not  this  talking?  Ask  Quintilian's 
rules ; 

If  they  say  No,  the  town  has  many  fools. 

—  Pause  for  a  moment,  —  for  our  eyes 
behold 

The  plain  unsceptred  king,  the  man  of 
gold, 

The  thrice  illustrious  threefold  miDion- 


PICTURES   FROM   OCCASIONAL   POEMS. 


113 


Mark  his  slow-creeping,  dead,  metallic 
stare ; 

His  eyes,  dull  glimmering,  like  the  bal- 
ance-pan 

That  weighs  its  guinea  as  he  weighs  his 
man. 

—  Who 's  next  ?  An  artist,  in  a  satin  tie 
Whose  ample  folds  defeat  the  curious 

eye. 

—  And  there  's  the  cousin,  —  must  be 

asked,  you  know,  — 
Looks  like  a  spinster  at  a  baby-show. 
Hope  he  is  cool,  —  they  set  him  next 

the  door,  — 
And  likes  his  place,  between  the  gap 

and  bore. 

—  Next  comes  a  Congress-man,  distin- 

guished guest ! 

We  don't  count  him,  —  they  asked  him 
with  the  rest ; 

And  then  some  white  cravats,  with  well- 
shaped  ties, 

And  heads  above  them  which  their 
owners  prize. 

Of  all  that  cluster  round  the  genial 

board, 

Not  one  so  radiant  as  the  banquet's  lord. 
Some  say  they  fancy,  but  they  know  not 

why, 
A  shade  of   trouble    brooding   in   his 

eye, 

Nothing,  perhaps,  —  the  rooms  are  over- 
hot, — 

Yet  see  his  cheek,  —  the  dull-red  burn- 
ing spot,  — 

Taste  the  brown  sherry  which  he  does 
not  pass,  — 

Ha!    That  is  brandy;  see  him  fill  his 


But    not    forgetful    of   his    feasting 

friends, 
To  each  in  turn  some  lively  word  he 

sends ; 
See  how  he  throws  his  baited  lilies  about, 


And  plays  his  men  as  anglers  play  their 


trout. 


With  the  dry  sticks  all  bonfires  are 

begun; 

Bring  the  first  fagot,  proser  number  one ! 
A  question  drops  among  the  listening 

crew 
And  hits  the  traveller,   pat  on  Tiui- 

buctoo. 
We  're  on  the  Niger,  somewhere  near  its 

source,  — 
Not  the  least  hurry,  take  the  river's 

course 
Through  Kissi,  Foota,  Kankan,  Bamma- 

koo, 

Batnbarra,  Sego,  so  to  Timbuctoo, 
Thence  down  to  Youri ;  —  stop  him  if 

we  can, 
We  can't  fare  worse,  —  wake  up  the 

Congress-man  ! 
The  Congress-man,  once  on  his  talking 


Stirs  up  his  knowledge  to  its  thickest 


Tremendous  draught  for  dining  men  to 

quaff! 
Nothing  will  choke  him  but  a  purpling 

laugh. 
A  word,  —  a  shout,  — a  mighty  roar,  — 

't  is  done ; 
Extinguished  ;  lassoed  by  a  treacherous 

pun. 

A  laugh  is  priming  to  the  loaded  soul ; 
The  scattering  shots  become  a  steady 

roll, 
Broke  by  sharp  cracks  that  run  along 

the  line, 

The  light  artillery  of  the  talker's  wine. 
The  kindling  goblets  flame  with  golden 

dews, 

The  hoarded  flasks  their  tawny  fire  dif- 
fuse, 
And  the  Rhine's  breast-milk  gushes  cold 

and  bright, 


114 


SONGS   IN   MANY  KEYS. 


Pale  as  the  moon  and  maddening  as  her  I 

light; 
With  crimson  juice  the  thirsty  southern 


Sucks  from  the  hills  where  buried  armies 

He, 

So  that  the  dreamy  passion  it  imparts 
Is  drawn  from  heroes'  bones  and  lovers' 

hearts. 
But  lulls  will  come ;  the  flashing  soul 

transmits 

Its  gleams  of  light  in  alternating  fits. 
The  shower  of  talk  that  rattled  down 

amain 
Ends  in  small  patterings  like  an  April's 

rain ; 

The  voices  halt ;  the  game  is  at  a  stand  ; 
Now  for  a  solo  from  the  master-hand  ! 
'T  is  but  a  story,  —  quite  a  simple 

thing,  — 

An  aria  touched  upon  a  single  string, 
But  every  accent  comes  with  such  a 

grace 

The  stupid  servants  listen  in  their  place, 
Each  with  his  waiter  in  his  lifted  hands, 
Still  as  a  well-bred  pointer  when  he 

stands. 

A  query  checks  him  :  "Is  he  quite  ex- 
act ? "  — 
(This  from  a  grizzled,  square-jawed  man 

of  fact.) 
The  sparkling  story  leaves  him  to  his 

fate, 
Crushed  by  a  witness,  smothered  with 

a  date, 
As  a  swift  river,  sown  with  many  a 

star, 
Runs  brighter,  rippling  on  a  shallow 

bar. 
The  smooth  divine  suggests  a  graver 

doubt ; 

A  neat  quotation  bowls  the  parson  out ; 
Then,  sliding  gayly  from  his  own  dis- 
play. 
He  laughs  the  learned  dulness  all  away. 


So,   with  the  merry  tale  and  jovial 


song, 


The  jocund  evening  whirls  itself  along, 
Till  the  last  chorus  shrieks  its  loud  en- 
core, 

And     the    white     neckcloths    vanish 
through  the  door. 

One    savage    word  !  —  The    menials 

know  its  tone, 
And    slink   away;    the  master  stands 

alone. 
"Well  played,    by — ";    breathe  not 

what  were  best  unheard  ; 
His  goblet  shivers  while  he  speaks  the 

word,  — 
"  If  wine  tells  truth,  —  and  so  have  said 

the  wise,  — 
It  makes  me  laugh  to  think  how  brandy 

lies  ! 

Bankrupt  to-morrow, — millionnaire  to- 
day,— 
The  farce  is   over,  —  now  begins    the 

play  ! " 
The  spring  he  touches  lets  a  panel 

glide; 

An  iron  closet  lurks  beneath  the  slide, 
Bright  with  such  treasures  as  a  search 

might  bring 
From  the  deep  pockets  of  a  truant  king. 
Two  diamonds,    eyeballs  of  a  God  of 

bronze, 
Bought  from  his  faithful  priest,  a  pious 

Bonze  ; 
A  string  of  brilliants ;   rubies,  three  or 

four; 

Bags  of  old  coin  and  bars  of  virgin  ore  ; 

A  jewelled  poniard  and  a  Turkish  knife, 

Noiseless  and  useful  if  we  come  to  strife. 

Gone  !     As  a  pirate  flies  before  the 

wind, 

And  not  one  tear  for  all  he  leaves  be- 
hind ! 
From  all  the  love  his  better  years  have 

known 


PICTURES  FEOM   OCCASIONAL  POEMS. 


115 


Fled  like  a  felon,  —  ah  !  but  not  alone  ! 

The  chariot  flashes  through  a  lantern's 
glare,  — 

0  the  wild  eyes  !  the  storm  of  sable 
hair  ! 

Still  to  his  side  the  broken  heart  will 

cling,  — 

•The  bride  of  shame,  the  wife  without 
the  ring  : 

Hark,  the  deep  oath,  —  the  wail  of  fren- 
zied woe,  — 

Lost !  lost  to  hope  of  Heaven  and  peace 
below  ! 

He  kept  his  secret ;  but  the  seed  of 
crime 

Bursts  of  itself  in  God's  appointed  time. 

The  lives  he  wrecked  were  scattered  far 
and  wide  ; 

One  never  blamed  nor  wept,  —  she  only 
died. 

None  knew  his  lot,  though  idle  tongues 
would  say 

He  sought  a  lonely  refuge  far  away, 

And  there,  with  borrowed  name  and  al- 
tered mien, 

He  died  unheeded,  as  he  lived  unseen. 

The  moral  market  had  the  usual  chills 

Of  Virtue  suffering  from  protested  bills  ; 

The  White  Cravats,  to  friendship's  mem- 
ory true, 

Sighed  for  the  past,  surveyed  the  future 
too ; 

Their  sorrow  breathed  in  one  expressive 
line,  — 

"Gave  pleasant  dinners;  who  has  got 
his  wine  ? " 


THE  MYSTERIOUS  ILLNESS. 

WHAT  ailed  young  Lucius  ?    Art  had 

vainly  tried 

To  guess  his  ill,  and  found  herself  defied. 
The  Augur  plied  his  legendary  skill ; 


Useless ;    the   fair  young  Roman   lan- 
guished still. 

His  chariot  took  him  every  cloudless 
day 

Along  the  Pincian  Hill  or  Appian  Way ; 

They  rubbed  his  wasted  limbs  with  sul- 
phurous oil, 

Oozed  from  the  far-off  Orient's  heated 
soil ; 

They  led  him  tottering  down  the  steamy 
path 

Where  bubbling  fountains  filled  the  ther- 
mal bath ; 

Borne  in  his  litter  to  Egeria's  cave, 

They  washed  him,  shivering,  in  her  icy 
wave. 

They  sought  all  curious  herbs  and  costly 
stones, 

They  scraped  the  moss  that  grew  on  dead 
men's  bones, 

They  tried  all  cures  the  votive  tablets 
taught, 

Scoured    every   place    whence    healing 
drugs  were  brought, 

O'er  Thracian  hills  his  breathless  couriers 
ran, 

His  slaves  waylaid  the  Syrian  caravan. 
At  last  a  servant  heard  a  stranger 
speak 

A  new  chirurgeon's   name ;    a  clever 
Greek, 

Skilled  in  his  art ;  from  Pergamus  he 
came 

To  Rome  but  lately;   GALEN  was  the 
name. 

The  Greek  was  called  :  a  man  with  pier- 
cing eyes, 

Who  must  be  cunning,  and  who  might 
be  wise. 

He  spoke  but  little,  —  if  they  pleased, 
he  said, 

He  'd  wait  awhile  beside  the  sufferer's 
bed. 

So    by   his    side   he    sat,    serene    and 
calm, 


116 


SONGS   IN   MANY  KEYS. 


His  very  accents  soft  as  healing  balm  ; 
Not  curious  seemed,  but  every  movement 


His   sharp  eyes   searching  where  they 
seemed  to  glide  ; 

Asked  a  few  questions,  —  what  he  felt, 
and  where  ? 

"A  pain  just  here,"  "A  constant  beat- 
ing there." 

Who  ordered  bathing  for  his  aches  and 
ails? 

"  Charmis,  the  water-doctor  from  Mar- 
seilles." 

What  was  the  last  prescription  in  his 
case? 

"A  draught  of   wine  with  powdered 
chrysoprase. " 

Had  he  no  secret  grief  he  nursed  alone? 

A  pause  ;    a  little   tremor  ;   answer,  — 

"None." 

Thoughtful,  a  moment,  sat  the  cun- 
ning leech, 

And  muttered  "Eros!"  in  his  native 

speech. 

In  the  broad  atrium  varioxis  friends 
await 

The  last  new  utterance  from  the  lips  of 
fate  ; 

Men,   matrons,   maids,   they   talk    the 
question  o'er, 

And,  restless,  pace  the  tessellated  floor. 

Not  unobserved  the  youth  so  long  had 
pined 

By  gentle-hearted  dames  and  damsels 
kind  ; 

One  with  the  rest,   a  rich  Patrician's 
pride, 

The  lady  Hennia,  called  "  the  golden- 
eyed  " ; 

The  same  the  old  Proconsul  fain  must 
woo, 

Whom,  one  dark  night,  a  masked  sicarius 
slew; 

The  same  black  Crassus  over  roughly 
pressed 


To  hear  his  suit,  —  the  Tiber  knows  the 
rest. 

(Crassus  was  missed  next  morning  by  his 
set; 

Next  week  the  fishers  found  him  in  their 
net.) 

She  with  the  others  paced  the  ample 
hall, 

Fairest,  alas  !  and  saddest  of  them  all. 
At  length  the  Greek  declared,  with 
puzzled  face, 

Some  strange  enchantment  mingled  in 
the  case, 

And  naught  would  serve  to  act  as  counter- 
charm 

Save  a  warm  bracelet  from  a  maiden's 
arm. 

Not  every  maiden's,  —  many  might  be 
tried  ; 

Which  not  in  vain,  experience  must  de- 
cide. 

Were   there  no  damsels  willing  to  at- 
tend 

And  do  such  service  for  a  suffering  friend  ? 
The  message  passed  among  the  waiting 
crowd, 

First   in   a  whisper,   then   proclaimed 
aloud. 

Some  wore  no  jewels  ;  some  were  disin- 
clined, 

For  reasons  better  guessed  at  than  de- 
nned ; 

Though  all  were  saints,  —  at  least  pro- 
fessed to  be,  — 

The  list  all  counted,  there  were  named 

but  three. 

The  leech,  still  seated  by  the  patient's 
side, 

Held  his  thin  wrist,  and  watched  him, 

eagle-eyed. 
Aurelia  first,  a  fair-haired  Tuscan  girl, 

Slipped  off  her  golden  asp,  with  eyes  of 
pearl. 

His  solemn  head  the  grave  physician 
shook  ; 


PICTURES   FROM   OCCASIONAL  POEMS. 

A  MOTHER'S  SECRET. 


117 


The  waxen  features  thanked  her  with  a 

look. 
Olympia  next,  a  creature  half  divine, 

Sprung  from  the  blood  of  old  Evander's 
line, 

Held  her  white  arm,  that  wore  a  twisted 
chain 

Clasped  with  an  opal-sheeny  cymophane. 

In  vain,  0  daughter  !   said  the  baffled 
Greek, 

The  patient  sighed  the  thanks  he  could 

not  speak. 

Last,  Hermia  entered  ;  look,  that  sud- 
den start  ! 

The  pallium  heaves  above  his  leaping 
heart ; 

The  beating  pulse,  the  cheek's  rekindled 
flame, 

Those  quivering  lips,  the  secret  all  pro- 
claim. 

The  deep  disease  long  throbbing  in  the 
breast, 

The  dread  enchantment,  all  at  once  con- 
fessed ! 

The  case  was  plain  ;   the  treatment  was 
begun  ; 

And  Love  soon  cured  the  mischief  he  had 
done. 


Young  Love,  too  oft  thy  treacherous 

bandage  slips 
Down  from  the  eyes  it  blinded  to  the 

lips  ! 
Ask  not  the  Gods,  0  youth,  for  clearer 

sight, 
But  the  bold  heart  to  plead  thy  cause 

aright. 
And  thou,  fair  maiden,  when  thy  lovers 

sigh, 
Suspect  thy  flattering   ear,    but   trust 

thine  eye ; 
And  learn  this  secret  from  the  tale  of 

old: 

No  love  so  true  as  love  that  dies  un- 
told. 


How  sweet  the  sacred   legend  —  if 

uublamed 
In  my  slight  verse  such  holy  things  are 

named — 

Of  Mary's  secret  hours  of  hidden  joy, 
Silent,  but  pondering  on  her  wondrous 

boy! 

Ave,  Maria !     Pardon,  if  I  wrong 
Those  heavenly  words  that  shame  my 

earthly  song ! 
The  choral  host  had  closed  the  Angel's 

strain 

Sung  to  the  listening  watch  on  Bethle- 
hem's plain, 
And  now  the  shepherds,  hastening  on 

their  way, 
Sought  the  still  hamlet  where  the  Infant 

lay. 
They  passed  the  fields  that  gleaning 

Ruth,  toiled  o'er,  — 
They  saw  afar   the   ruined   threshing- 
floor 
Where  Moab's  daughter,  homeless  and 

forlorn, 
Found  Boaz  slumbering  by  his  heaps  of 

corn; 
And  some  remembered  how  the  holy 

scribe, 

Skilled  in  the  lore  of  every  jealous  tribe, 
Traced  the  warm  blood  of  Jesse's  royal 

son 
To  that  fair  alien,  bravely  wooed  and 

won. 
So  fared  they  on  to  seek  the  promised 

sign, 
That    marked    the    anointed    heir    of 

David's  line. 
At  last,  by  forms  of  earthly  semblance 

led, 
They  found  the  crowded  inn,  the  oxen's 

shed. 
No  pomp  was  there,  no  glory  shone 

around 


118 


SONGS   IN   MANY   KEYS. 


i 


On  the  coarse  straw  that  strewed  the 
reeking  ground; 

One  dim  retreat  a  flickering  torch  be- 
trayed, — 

In  that  poor  cell  the  Lord  of  Life  was 

laid! 

The  wondering  shepherds  told  their 
breathless  tale 

Of  the  bright  choir  that  woke  the  sleep- 
ing vale ; 

Told  how  the  skies  with  sudden  glory 
flamed, 

Told  how  the  shining  multitude  pro- 
claimed, 

"Joy,  joy  to  earth!  Behold  the  hal- 
lowed morn ! 

In  David's  city  Christ  the  Lord  is  born ! 

'  Glory  to  God ! '  let  angels  shout  on  high, 

'  Good- will  to  men ! '  the  listening  earth 

reply ! " 

They  spoke  with  hurried  words  and 
accents  wild; 

Calm  in  his  cradle  slept  the  heavenly 
child. 

No  trembling  word  the  mother's  joy  re- 
vealed, — 

One  sigh  of  rapture,  and  her  lips  were 
sealed ; 

Unmoved  she  saw  the  rustic  train  depart, 

But  kept  their  words  to  ponder  in  her 
heart. 

Twelve  years  had  passed ;  the  boy  was 
fair  and  tall, 

Growing  in  wisdom,  finding  grace  with 
all. 

The  maids  of  Nazareth,  as  they  trooped 
to  fill 

Their  balanced  urns  beside  the  moun- 
tain rill, 

The  gathered  matrons,  as  they  sat  and 
spun, 

Spoke  in  soft  words  of  Joseph's  quiet 
son. 

No  voice  had  reached  the  Galilean  vale 


Of  star-led  kings,  or  awe-struck  shep- 
herd's tale ; 

In  the  meek,  studious  child  they  only  saw 

The  future  Rabbi,  learned  in  Israel's  law. 

So  grew  the  boy,  and  now  the  feast 

was  near 
When  at  the    Holy   Place   the  tribes 

appear. 
Scarce    had    the    home-bred    child    of 

Nazareth  seen 
Beyond  the  hills  that  girt  the  village 

green  ; 
Save  when  at  midnight,  o'er  the  starlit 

sands, 

Snatched  from  the  steel  of  Herod's  mur- 
dering bands, 
A  babe,   close  folded  to  his  mother's 

breast, 
Through  Edom's  wilds  he  sought  the 

sheltering  West. 
Then  Joseph  spake  :  "  Thy  boy  hath 

largely  grown  ; 
Weave  him  fine  raiment,  fitting  to  be 

shown ; 
Fair  robes  beseem  the  pilgrim,  as  the 

priest: 

Goes  he  not  with  us  to  the  holy  feast  ? " 
And   Mary  culled  the   flaxen   fibres 

white ; 

Till  eve  she  spun ;  she  spun  till  morn- 
ing light. 
The  thread  was   twined ;    its    parting 

meshes  through 
From  hand  to  hand  her  restless  shuttle 

flew, 
Till  the  full  web  was  wound  upon  the 

beam; 
Love's  curious  toil,  —  a  vest  without  a 

seam! 
They  reach  the  Holy  Place,  fulfil  the 

days 
To  solemn  feasting  given,  and  grateful 

praise. 
At  last  they  turn,    and   far  Moriah's 

height 


PICTURES   FROM   OCCASIONAL   POEMS. 


119 


Melts  in  the  southern   sky  and  fades 

from  sight. 

All  day  the  dusky  caravan  has  flowed 
In  devious  trails  along  the  winding  road ; 
(For  many  a  step  their  homeward  path 

attends, 
And  all  the  sons  of  Abraham  are  as 

friends.) 
Evening  has  come,  —  the  hour  of  rest 

and  joy,  — 
Hush!  Hush!  That  whisper,— "Where 

is  Mary's  boy  ? " 
0  weary  hour!     0  aching  days  that 

passed 
Filled  with  strange  fears  each  wilder 

than  the  last,  — 
The  soldier's  lance,  the  fierce  centurion's 

sword, 
The  crushing  wheels  that  whirl  some 

Roman  lord, 

The  midnight  crypt  that  sucks  the  cap- 
tive's breath, 
The  blistering  sun  on  Hinnom's  vale  of 

death ! 
Thrice  on  his  cheek  had  rained  the 

morning  light ; 
Thrice  on  his  lips  the  mildewed  kiss  of 

night, 

Crouched  by  a  sheltering  column's  shin- 
ing plinth, 

Or  stretched  beneath  the  odorous  tere- 
binth. 
At    last,    in    desperate    mood,   they 

sought  once  more 
The  Temple's  porches,  searched  in  vain 

before  ; 
They  found  him  seated  with  the  ancient 

men,  — 
The  grim  old  rufflers  of  the  tongue  and 

pen,  — 
Their  bald  heads  glistening    as    they 

clustered  near, 
Their    gray  beards    slanting    as    they 

turned  to  hear, 
Lost  in  half-envious  wonder  and  surprise 


That  lips  so  fresh  should  utter  words  so 

wise. 
And  Mary  said,  —  as  one  who,  tried 

too  long, 
Tells  all  her  grief  and  half  her  sense  of 

wrong,  — 
"  What  is  this  thoughtless  thing  which 

thou  hast  done  ? 
Lo,  we  have  sought  thee  sorrowing,  0 

my  son !" 
Few  words  he  spake,  and  scarce  of 

filial  tone, 
Strange  words,  their  sense  a  mystery 

yet  unknown ; 
Then   turned  with  them  and  left  the 

holy  hill, 
To  all  their  mild  commands  obedient 

still. 
The  tale  was  told  to  Nazareth's  sober 

men, 
And  Nazareth's  matrons    told    it    oft 

again  ; 
The  maids  retold  it  at  the  fountain's 

side, 
The    youthful    shepherds    doubted    or 

denied ; 
It  passed  around  among  the  listening 

friends, 
With  all  that  fancy  adds  and  fiction 

lends, 
Till  newer  marvels  dimmed  the  young 

renown 
Of  Joseph's  son,  who  talked  the  Rabbis 

down. 

But  Mary,  faithful  to  its  lightest  word, 
Kept  in  her  heart  the  sayings  she  had 

heard, 

Till  the  dread  morning  rent  the  Tem- 
ple's veil, 
And  shuddering  earth  confirmed    the 

wondrous  tale. 


Youth  fades  ;  love  droops ;  the  leaves 

of  friendship  fall : 
A  mother's  secret  hope  outlives  them  all. 


120 


SONGS  IN   MANY  KEYS. 


THE  DISAPPOINTED  STATESMAN. 

WHO  of  all  statesmen  is  his  country's 
pride, 

Her  councils'  prompter  and  her  leaders' 
guide  ? 

He  speaks  ;  the  nation  holds  its  breath 
to  hear ; 

He  nods,  and  shakes  the  sunset  hemi- 
sphere. 

Born  where  the  primal  fount  of  Nature 
springs 


kings, 

In  his  proud  eye  her  royal  signet  flames, 
By  his  own  lips  her  Monarch  she  pro- 
claims. 
"Why  name  his  countless  triumphs, 

whom  to  meet 

Is  to  be  famous,  envied  in  defeat  ? 
The  keen  debaters,  trained  to  brawls 

and  strife, 
Who  fire  one  shot,  and  finish  with  the 

knife, 
Tried  him  but  once,  and,  cowering  in 

their  shame, 
Ground  their  hacked  blades  to  strike  at 

meaner  game. 

The  lordly  chief,  his  party's  central  stay, 
Whose  lightest  word  a  hundred  votes 

obey, 

Found  a  new  listener  seated  at  his  side, 
Looked  in  his  eye,  and  felt  himself  defied, 
Flung  his  rash  gauntlet  on  the  startled 

floor, 
Met   the  all-conquering,  fought  —  and 

ruled  no  more. 
See    where    he    moves,    what    eager 

crowds  attend! 
What  shouts  of  thronging  multitudes 

ascend  ! 

If  this  is  life,  —  to  mark  with  every  hour 
The  purple  deepening  in  his  robes  of 

power, 
To  see  the  painted  fruits  of  honor  fall 


Thick  at  his  feet,   and  Cnoose  among 
them  all, 

To  hear  the   sounds    that    shape    his 
ing  name 

Peal  through  the  myriad  organ-stops  of 
fame, 

Stamp  the  lone  isle  that  spots  the  sea- 
man's chart, 

And  crown  the  pillared  glory  of  the  mart, 

To  count  as  peers  the  few  supremely  wise 

Who  mark  their  planet  in  the  angels' 
eyes,  — 

If  this  is  life  — 

What  savage  man  is  he 

Who  strides  alone  beside  the  sounding 
sea? 

Alone  he  wanders  by  the  murmuring 
shore, 

His  thoughts  as  restless  as  the  waves 
that  roar ; 

Looks  on  the  sullen  sky  as  stormy- 
browed 

As  on  the  waves  yon  tempest-brooding 
cloud, 

Heaves  from  his  aching  breast  a  wailing 
sigh, 

Sad  as  the  gust  that  sweeps  the  clouded 
sky. 

Ask  him  his  griefs  ;  what  midnight  de- 
mons plough 

The  lines  of  torture  on  his  lofty  brow ; 

Unlock  those  marble  lips,  and  bid  them 
speak 

The  mystery  freezing  in  his  bloodless 

cheek. 

His   secret  ?    Hid  beneath  a  flimsy 
word ; 

One  foolish  whisper  that  ambition  heard ; 

And  thus  it  spake :  "  Behold  yon  gilded 
chair, 

The  world's  one  vacant  throne,  —  thy 

place  is  there ! " 

Ah,   fatal    dream !      What   warning 
spectres  meet 

In  ghastly  circle  round  its  shadowy  seat ! 


PICTURES   FROM   OCCASIONAL  POEMS. 


121 


Yet  still  the  Tempter  murmurs  in  his  ear 

The  maddening  taunt  he  cannot  choose 
but  hear : 

"  Meanest  of  slaves,  by  gods  and  men 
accurst, 

He  who  is  second  when  he  might  be  first ! 

Climb  with  bold  front  the  ladder's  top- 
most round, 

Or  chain  thy  creeping  footsteps  to  the 

ground  ! " 

Illustrious  Dupe  !    Have  those  majes- 
tic eyes 

Lost  their  proud  fire  for  such  a  vulgar 
prize  ? 

Art  thou  the  last  of  all  mankind  to  know 

That  party -fights  are  won  by  aiming  low  ? 

Thou,  stamped  by  Nature  with  her  royal 
sign, 

That  party-hirelings  hate  a  look  like 
thine  ? 

Shake  from  thy  sense  the  wild  delusive 
dream ! 

Without  the  purple,  art  thou  not  su- 
preme ? 

And  soothed  by  love  unbought,    thy 
heart  shall  own 

A  nation's  homage  no  bier  than  its  throne ! 


THE  SECRET  OF  THE  STARS. 

Is  man's  the  only  throbbing  heart  that 
hides 

The  silent  spring  that  feeds  its  whisper- 
ing tides  ? 

Speak  from  thy  caverns,  mystery-breed- 
ing Earth, 

Tell  the  half-hinted  story  of  thy  birth, 

And  calm  the  noisy  champions  who  have 
thrown 

The  book  of  types  against  the  book  of 
stone  ! 

Have  ye  not  secrets,  ye  refulgent 
spheres, 


No  sleepless  listener  of  the  starlight 

hears  ? 

In  vain  the  sweeping  equatorial  pries 
Through  every  world-sown  corner  of  the 

skies, 

To  the  far  orb  that  so  remotely  strays 
Our  midnight  darkness  is  its  noonday 

blaze  ; 
In  vain  the  climbing  soul  of  creeping 

man 
Metes  out  the  heavenly  concave  with  a 

span, 
Tracks  into  space  the  long-lost  meteor's 

trail, 
And  weighs  an  unseen   planet  in  the 

scale  ; 
Still    o'er  their  doubts    the    waneyed 

watchers  sigh, 
And  Science  lifts  her  still  unanswered 

cry: 
"  Are  all  these  worlds,  that  speed  their 

circling  flight, 
Dumb,  vacant,  soulless,  —  bawbles  of 

the  night  ? 
Warmed  with  God's  smile  and  wafted 

by  his  breath, 
To  weave  in  ceaseless  round  the  dance 

of  Death  ? 

Or  rolls  a  sphere  in  each  expanding  zone, 
Crowned  with  a  life  as  varied  as  our 

own  ? " 

Maker  of  earth  and  stars  !     If  thou 

hast  taught 
By  what  thy  voice  hath  spoke,  thy  hand 

hath  wrought, 
By  all  that  Science  proves,  or  guesses 

true, 
More  than  thy  Poet  dreamed,  thy  prophet 

knew,  — 
The  heavens  still  bow  in  darkness  at  thy 

feet, 
And  shadows  veil  thy  cloud-pavilioned 

seat ! 
Not  for  ourselves  we  ask  thee  to  reveal 


122 


SONGS  IN   MANY  KEYS. 


One  awful  word  beneath  the  future's  seal 
What  thoushalt  tell  us,  grant  us  strength 

to  bear ; 
What  thou  withholdest  is  thy  single 

care. 
Not  for  ourselves  ;  the  present  clings  too 

fast, 
Moored  to  the  mighty  anchors  of  the 

past ; 
But  when,  with  angry  snap,  some  cable 

parts, 
The  sound  re-echoing  in  our  startled 

hearts,  — 
When,  through  the  wall  that  clasps  the 

harbor  round, 
And  shuts  the   raving  ocean  from  its 

bound, 

Shattered  and  rent  by  sacrilegious  hands, 
The  first  mad  billow  leaps  upon  the 

sands,  — 
Then  to   the   Future's  awful  page  we 

turn, 
And  what  we  question  hardly  dare  to 

learn. 
Still  let  us  hope  !  for  while  we  seem 

to  tread 
The  time-worn  pathway  of  the  nations 

dead, 
Though  Sparta  laughs  at  all  our  warlike 

deeds, 
And   buried  Athens  claims  our  stolen 

creeds, 
Though  Rome,  a  spectre  on  her  broken 

throne, 

Beholds  our  eagle  and  recalls  her  own, 
Though  England  fling  her  pennons  on 

the  breeze 
And  reign   before   us   Mistress   of  the 

seas,  — 

While  calm-eyed  History  tracks  us  cir- 
cling round 
Fate's  iron  pillar  where  they  all  were 

bound, 

She    sees    new  beacons  crowned  with 
brighter  flame 


Than  the  old  watch-fires,  like,  but  not 
the  same ! 

Still  in   our  path   a  larger  curve   she 
finds, 

The  spiral  widening  as  the  chain  un- 
winds ! 

No  shameless  haste  shall  spot  with  ban- 
dit-crime 

Our  destined  empire  snatched  before  its 
time. 

Wait,  —  wait,  undoubting,  for  the  winds 
have  caught 

From  our  bold  speech  the  heritage  of 
thought ; 

No  marble  form  that  sculptured  truth 
can  wear 

Vies  with  the  image  shaped  in  viewless 
air; 

And  thought  unfettered  grows  through 
speech  to  deeds, 

As   the    broad   forest   marches    in    its 
seeds. 

What  though  we  perish  ere  the  day  is 
won? 

Enough  to  see  its  glorious  work  begun ! 

The  thistle  falls   before    a    trampling 
clown, 

But  who  can  chain  the  flying  thistle- 
down ? 

Wait  while  the  fiery  seeds  of  freedom 
fly, 

The  prairie  blazes  when  the  grass  is 

dry ! 

What  arms  might  ravish,    leave  to 
peaceful  arts, 

Wisdom  and  love  shall  win  the  roughest 
hearts; 

So  shall  the  angel  who  has  closed  for 
man 

The  blissful  garden  since  his  woes  be- 
gan 

Swing  wide  the  golden  portals  of  the 
West, 

And  Eden's  secret  stand  at  length  con- 
fessed ! 


A  POEM. 


123 


A  POEM. 

DEDICATION  OF  THE   PITTSFIELD   CEME- 
TERY,   SEPTEMBER  9,  1850. 

ANGEL  of  Death !  extend  thy  silent  reign ! 
Stretch  thy  dark  sceptre  o'er  this  new 

domain ! 

No  sable  car  along  the  winding  road 
Has  borne  to  earth  its  unresisting  load  ; 
No  sudden  mound  has  risen  yet  to  show 
Where  the  pale  slumberer  folds  his  arms 

below ; 

No  marble  gleams  to  bid  his  memory  live 
In  the  brief  lines  that  hurrying  Time 

can  give ; 
Yet,  0  Destroyer!  from  thy  shrouded 

throne 
Look  on  our  gift ;  this  realm  is  all  thine 

own! 

Fair  is  the  scene ;  its  sweetness  oft  be- 
guiled 

From  their  dim  paths  the  children  of 
the  wild ; 

The  dark-haired  maiden  loved  its  grassy 
dells, 

The  feathered  warrior  claimed  its  wooded 
swells, 

Still  on  its  slopes  the  ploughman's  ridges 
show 

The  pointed  flints  that  left  his  fatal  bow, 

Chipped  with  rough  art  and  slow  bar- 
barian toil,  — 

Last  of  his  wrecks  that  strews  the  alien 

soil! 

Here  spread  the  fields  that  heaped 
their  ripened  store 

Till  the  brown  arms  of  Labor  held  no 
more; 

The    scythe's  broad  meadow   with   its 
dusky  blush ; 

The  sickle's  harvest  with  its  velvet  flush ; 

The    green-haired    maize,    her    silken 
tresses  laid, 

In  soft  luxuriance,  on  her  harsh  brocade  ; 


The  gourd  that  swells  beneath  her  toss- 
ing plume ; 

The  coarser  wheat  that  rolls  in  lakes  of 
bloom,  — 

Its  coral  stems  and  milk-white  flowers 
alive 

With  the  wide  murmurs  of  the  scattered 
hive; 

Here  glowed  the  apple  with  the  pen- 
cilled streak 

Of  morning  painted  on  its  southern 
cheek ; 

The  pear's  long  necklace  strung  with 
golden  drops, 

Arched,  like  the  banian,  o'er  its  pillared 
props  ; 

Here  crept  the  growths  that  paid  the 
laborer's  care 

With  the  cheap  luxuries  wealth  con- 
sents to  spare; 

Here  sprang  the  healing  herbs  which 
could  not  save 

The  hand  that  reared  them  from  the 
neighboring  grave. 

Yet  all  its  varied  charms,  forever  free 
From  task  and  tribute,  Labor  yields  to 

thee : 
No  more,  when  April  sheds  her  fitful 

rain, 
The  sower's  hand  shall  cast  its  flying 

grain ; 
No  more,   when  Autumn    strews    the 

flaming  leaves, 
The  reaper's  band  shall  gird  its  yellow 

sheaves  ; 

For  thee  alike  the  circling  seasons  flow 
Till  the  first  blossoms  heave  the  latest 

snow. 
In  the  stiff  clod  below  the  whirling 

drifts, 
In  the  loose  soil  the  springing  herbage 

lifts, 
In  the  hot  dust  beneath  the  parching 

weeds, 


124 


SONGS  IN   MANY  KEYS. 


Life's  withering  flower  shall  drop  its 

shrivelled  seeds; 
Its  germ  entranced  in  thy  unbreathing 

sleep 
Till  what  thou  sowest  mightier  angels 

reap! 

Spirit  of  Beauty  !  let  thy  graces  blend 

With  loveliest  Nature  all  that  Art  can 
lend. 

Come  from  the  bowers  where  Summer's 
life-blood  flows 

Through  the  red  lips  of  June's  half-open 
rose. 

Dressed  in  bright  hues,  the  loving  sun- 
shine's dower ; 

For  tranquil  Nature  owns  no  mourning 

flower. 

Come  from  the  forest  where  the  beech's 
screen 

Bars  the  fierce  noonbeam  with  its  flakes 
of  green ; 

Stay  the  rude  axe  that  bares  the  shadowy 
plains, 

Stanch  the  deep  wound  that  dries  the 

maple's  veins. 

Come  with  the  stream  whose  silver- 
braided  rills 

Fling  their  unclasping  bracelets  from  the 
hills, 

Till  in  one  gleam,  beneath  the  forest's 
wings, 

Melts  the  white  glitter  of  a  hundred 

springs. 

Come  from  the  steeps  where  look  ma- 
jestic forth 

From  their  twin  thrones  the  Giants  of 
the  North 

On  the  huge  shapes,  that,  crouching  at 
their  knees, 

Stretch  their  broad  shoulders,  rough  with 
shaggy  trees. 

Through  the  wide  waste  of  ether,  not  in 


Their  softened  gaze  shall  reach  our  dis- 
tant plain ; 

There,  while  the  mourner  turns  his  ach- 
ing eyes 

On  the  blue  mounds  that  print  the  bluer 
skies, 

Nature  shall  whisper  that  the  fading 
view 

Of  mightiest  grief  may  wear  a  heavenly 
hue. 

Cherub  of  Wisdom  !  let  thy  marble  page 
Leave  its  sad  lesson,  new  to  every  age  ; 
Teach  us  to  live,  not  grudging  every 

breath 
To  the  chill  winds  that  waft  us  on  to 

death, 

But  ruling  calmly  every  pulse  it  warms, 
And  tempering  gently  every  word  it 

forms. 
Seraph  of  Love!  in  heaven's  adoring 

zone, 

Nearest  of  all  around  the  central  throne, 
While  with  soft  hands  the  pillowed  turf 

we  spread 
That  soon  shall  hold  us  in  its  dreamless 

bed, 
With  the  low  whisper,  —  Who  shall  first 

be  laid 
In  the  dark  chamber's  yet  unbroken 

shade  ?  — 
Let  thy  sweet  radiance  shine  rekindled 

here, 

And  all  we  cherish  grow  more  truly  dear. 
Here  in  the  gates  of  Death's  o'erhanging 

vault, 
0,  teach  us  kindness  for  our  brother's 

fault ; 
Lay  all  our  wrongs  beneath  this  peaceful 

sod, 
And  lead  our  hearts  to  Mercy  and  its 

God. 

FATHER  of  all !  in  Death's  relentless 
claim 


TO   GOVERNOR  SWAIN. 


125 


We  read  thy  mercy  by  its  sterner  name; 

In  the  bright  flower  that  decks  the  sol- 
emn bier, 

We  see  thy  glory  in  its  narrowed  sphere ; 

In  the  deep  lessons  that  affliction  draws, 

We  trace  the  curves  of  thy  encircling 
laws ; 

In  the  long  sigh  that  sets  our  spirits  free, 

We  own  the  love  that  calls  us  back  to 
Thee! 

Through  the  hushed  street,   along  the 

silent  plain, 
The  spectral  future  leads  its  mourning 

train, 
Dark  with  the  shadows  of  uncounted 

bands, 
Where  man's  white  lips  and  woman's 

wringing  hands 

Track  the  still  burden,  rolling  slow  be- 
fore, 
That  love  and  kindness  can  protect  no 

more  ; 
The  smiling  babe  that,  called  to  mortal 

strife, 
Shuts  its  meek  eyes  and  drops  its  little 

life; 
The  drooping  child  who  prays  in  vain  to 

live, 
And  pleads  for  help  its  parent  cannot 

give; 

The  pride  of  beauty  stricken  in  its  flower ; 
The  strength  of  manhood  broken  in  an 

hour  ; 
Age  in  its  weakness,  bowed  by  toil  and 

care, 
Traced  in  sad  lines  beneath  its  silvered 

hair. 

The  sun  shall  set,  and  heaven's  re- 
splendent spheres 

Gild  the  smooth  tuvf  unhallowed  yet  by 
tears, 

But  ah  !  how  soon  the  evening  stars  will 
shed 


Their  sleepless  light  around  the  slum- 
bering dead ! 

Take  them,   0  Father,  in  immortal 

trust! 

Ashes  to  ashes,  dust  to  kindred  dust, 
Till  the  last  angel  rolls  the  stone  away, 
And  a  new  morning  brings  eternal  day ! 

TO  GOVERNOR  SWAIN. 

DEAR  GOVERNOR,  if  my  skiff  might 

brave 

The  winds  that  lift  the  ocean  wave, 
The  mountain  stream  that  loops  and 

swerves 
Through  my  broad  meadow's  channelled 

curves 

Should  waft  me  on  from  bound  to  bound 
To  where  the  River  weds  the  Sound, 
The  Sound  should  give  me  to  the  Sea, 
That  to  the  Bay,  the  Bay  to  Thee. 

It  may  not  be ;  too  long  the  track 
To  follow  down  or  struggle  back. 
The  sun  has  set  on  fair  Naushon 
Long  ere  my  western  blaze  is  gone ; 
The  ocean  disk  is  rolling  dark 
In  shadows  round  your  swinging  bark, 
While  yet  the  yellow  sunset  fills 
The  stream  that  scarfs  my  spruce-clad 

hills ; 

The  day-star  wakes  your  island  deer 
Long  ere  my  barnyard  chanticleer ; 
Your  mists  are  soaring  in  the  blue 
While  mine  are  sparks  of  glittering  dew. 

It  may  not  be ;  0  would  it  might, 
Could  I  live  o'er  that  glowing  night ! 
What  golden  hours  would  come  to  life, 
What  goodly  feats  of  peaceful  strife,  — 
Such  jests,  that,  drained  of  every  joke, 
The  very  bank  of  language  broke,  — 
Such  deeds,  that  Laughter  nearly  died 
With  stitches  in  his  belted  side ; 


126 


SONGS   IN   MANY  KEYS. 


While  Time,  caught  fast  in  pleasure's 

chain, 

His  double  goblet  snapped  in  twain, 
And  stood  with  half  in  either  hand,  — 
Both  brimming  full,  —  but  not  of  sand  ! 

It  may  not  be ;  I  strive  in  vain 

To  break  my  slender  household  chain,  — 

Three  pairs  of  little  clasping  hands, 

One  voice,  that  whispers,  not  commands. 

Even  while  my  spirit  flies  away, 

My  gentle  jailers  murmur  nay ; 

All  shapes  of  elemental  wrath 

They  raise  along  my  threatened  path  ; 

The  storm  grows  black,  the  waters  rise, 

The  mountains  mingle  with  the  skies, 

The  mad  tornado  scoops  the  ground, 

The  midnight  robber  prowls  around,  — 

Thus,  kissing  every  limb  they  tie, 

They  draw  a  knot  and  heave  a  sigh, 

Till,  fairly  netted  in  the  toil, 

My  feet  are  rooted  to  the  soil. 

Only  the  soaring  wish  is  free  !  — 

And  that,  dear  Governor,  flies  to  thee  ! 

PlTTSFIELJ),    1851. 

TO  AN  ENGLISH  FRIEND. 

THE  seed  that  wasteful  autumn  cast 
To  waver  on  its  stormy  blast, 
Long  o'er  the  wintry  desert  tost, 


Its  living  germ  has  never  lost. 
Dropped  by  the  weary  tempest's  wing, 
It  feels  the  kindling  ray  of  spring, 
And,  starting  from  its  dream  of  death, 
Pours  on  the  air  its  perfumed  breath. 

So,  parted  by  the  rolling  flood, 

The  love  that  springs  from    common 

blood 

Needs  but  a  single  sunlit  hour 
Of  mingling  smiles  to  bud  and  flower; 
Unharmed  its  slumbering  life  has  flown, 
From    shore    to    shore,   from    zone    to 

zone, 

Where  summer's  falling  roses  stain 
The  tepid  waves  of  Pontchartraiu, 
Or  where  the  lichen  creeps  below 
Katahdin's  wreaths  of  whirling  snow. 

Though  fiery  sun  and  stiffening  cold 
May  change  the  fair  ancestral  mould, 
No  winter  chills,  no  summer  drains 
The    life-blood    drawn    from    English 

veins, 

Still  bearing  wheresoe'er  it  flows 
The  love  that  with  its  fountain  rose, 
Unchanged   by  space,   iinwronged    by 

time, 
From  age  to  age,  fron>  clime  to  clime  ! 

1852. 


VIGNETTES. 


127 


VIGNETTES. 

1853. 


AFTER  A  LECTURE  ON  WORDSWORTH. 

COME,  spread  your  wings,  as  I  spread 
mine, 

And  leave  the  crowded  hall 
For  where  the  eyes  of  twilight  shine 

O'er  evening's  western  wall. 

These  are  the  pleasant  Berkshire  hills, 

Each  with  its  leafy  crown ; 
Hark !  from  their  sides  a  thousand  rills 

Come  singing  sweetly  down. 

A  thousand  rills ;  they  leap  and  shine, 
Strained  through  the  shadowy  nooks, 

Till,  clasped  in  many  a  gathering  twine, 
They  swell  a  hundred  brooks. 

A  hundred  brooks,  and  still  they  run 
With  ripple,  shade,  and  gleam, 

Till,  clustering  all  their  braids  in  one, 
They  flow  a  single  stream. 

A  bracelet  spun  from  mountain  misl^ 

A  silvery  sash  unwound, 
With  ox-bow  curve  and  sinuous  twist 

It  writhes  to  reach  the  Sound. 

This  is  my  bark,  —  a  pygmy's  ship ; 

Beneath  a  child  it  rolls ; 
Fear  not,  —  one  body  makes  it  dip, 

But  not  a  thousand  souls. 

Float  we  the  grassy  banks  between  ; 
Without  an  oar  we  glide ; 


The  meadows,  drest  in  living  green, 
Unroll  on  either  side. 

—  Come,  take  the  book  we-love  so  well, 

And  let  us  read  and  dream 
We  see  whate'er  its  pages  tell, 

And  sail  an  English  stream. 

Up  to  the  clouds  the  lark  has  sprung, 

Still  trilling  as  he  flies ; 
The  linnet  sings  as  there  he  sung  ; 

The  unseen  cuckoo  cries, 

And  daisies  strew  the  banks  along, 

And  yellow  kingcups  shine, 
With  cowslips,  and  a  primrose  throng, 

And  humble  celandine. 

Ah  foolish  dream  !  when  Nature  nursed 

Her  daughter  in  the  West, 
The  fount  was  drained  that  opened  first ; 

She  bared  her  other  breast. 

On  the  young  planet's  orient  shore 
Her  morning  hand  she  tried ; 

Then  turned  the  broad  medallion  o'er 
And  stamped  the  sunset  side. 

Take  what  she  gives,  her  pine's  tall  stem, 
Her  elm  with  hanging  spray; 

She  wears  her  mountain  diadem 
Still  in  her  own  proud  way. 

Look  on  the  forests'  ancient  kings, 
The  hemlock's  towering  pride  : 

Yon  trunk  had  thrice  a  hundred  rings, 
And  fell  before  it  died. 


128 


SONGS   IN   MANY  KEYS. 


Nor  think  that  Nature  saves  her  bloom 
And  slights  our  grassy  plain  ; 

For  us  she  wears  her  court  costume,  — 
Look  on  its  broidered  train  ; 

The  lily  with  the  sprinkled  dots, 
Brands  of  the  noontide  beam  ; 

(The  cardinal,  and  the  blood-red  spots, 
Its  double  in  the  stream, 

As  if  some  wounded  eagle's  breast, 
Slow  throbbing  o'er  the  plain, 

Had  left  its  airy  path  impressed 
In  drops  of  scarlet  rain. 

And  hark !  and  hark  !  the  woodland  rings ; 

There  thrilled  the  thrush's  soul ; 
And  look  !  that  flash  of  flamy  wings,  — 

The  fire-plumed  oriole  ! 

Above,  the  hen-hawk  swims  and  swoops, 
Flung  from  the  bright,  blue  sky  ; 

Below,  the  robin  hops,  and  whoops 
His  piercing,  Indian  cry. 

Beauty  runs  virgin  in  the  woods 

Robed  in  her  rustic  green, 
And  oft  a  longing  thought  intrudes, 

As  if  we  might  have  seen 

Her  every  finger's  every  joint 
Ringed  with  some  golden  line, 

Poet  whom  Nature  did  anoint  ! 
Had  our  wild  home  been  thine. 

i  Yet  think  not  so  ;    Old  England's  blood 
'     Runs  warm  in  English  veins  ; 
But  wafted  o'er  the  icy  flood 
Its  better  life  remains  : 

Our  children  know  each  wildwood  smell, 

The  bayberry  and  the  fern, 
The  man  who  does  not  know  them  well 

Is  all  too  old  to  learn. 


Be  patient  !     On  the  breathing  page 
Still  pants  our  hurried  past ; 

Pilgrim  and  soldier,  saint  and  sage,  — 
The  poet  comes  the  last  ! 

Though  still  the  lark- voiced  matins  ring 
The  world  has  known  so  long  ; 

The  wood-thrush  of  the  West  shall  sing 
Earth's  last  sweet  even-song  ! 


AFTER  A  LECTURE  ON  MOORE. 

SHINE  soft,  ye  trembling  tears  of  light 
That  strew  the  mourning  skies  ; 

Hushed  in  the  silent  dews  of  night 
The  harp  of  Erin  lies. 

What  though  her  thousand  years  have 
past 

Of  poets,  saints,  and  kings,  — 
Her  echoes  only  hear  the  last 

That  swept  those  golden  strings. 

Fling  o'er  his  mound,  ye  star-lit  bowers, 
The  balmiest  wreaths  ye  wear, 

Whose  breath  has  lent  your  earth-born 

flowers 
Heaven's  own  ambrosial  air. 

Breathe,  bird  of  night,  thy  softest  tone, 

By  shadowy  grove  and  rill ; 
Thy  song  will  soothe  us  while  we  own 

That  his  was  sweeter  still. 

Stay,  pitying  Time,  thy  foot  for  him 
Who  gave  thee  swifter  wings, 

Nor  let  thine  envious  shadow  dim 
The  light  his  glory  flings. 

If  in  his  cheek  unholy  blood 
Burned  for  one  youthful  hour, 

'T  was  but  the  flushing  of  the  bud 
That  blooms  a  milk-white  flower. 


VIGNETTES. 


129 


Take  him,  kind  mother,  to  thy  breast, 
Who  loved  thy  smiles  so  well, 

And  spread  thy  mantle  o'er  his  rest 
Of  rose  and  asphodel. 

—  The  bark  has  sailed  the  midnight  sea, 

The  sea  without  a  shore, 
That  waved  its  parting  sign  to  thee,  — 

"A  health  to  thee,  Tom  Moore  ! " 

And  thine,  long  lingering  on  the  strand, 
Its  bright-hued  streamers  furled, 

Was  loosed  by  age,  with  trembling  hand, 
To  seek  the  silent  world. 

Not  silent !  no,  the  radiant  stars 

Still  singing  as  they  shine, 
Unheard   through  earth's   imprisoning 
bars, 

Have  voices  sweet  as  thine. 

Wake,  then,  in  happier  realms  above, 

The  songs  of  bygone  years, 
Till  angels  learn  those  airs  of  love 

That  ravished  mortal  ears  ! 


AFTER  A  LECTURE  ON  KEATS. 

"  Purpureos  spargam  flores." 

THE  wreath  that  star-crowned  Shelley 

gave 

Is  lying  on  thy  Roman  grave, 
Yet  on  its  turf  young  April  sets 
Her  store  of  slender  violets  ; 
Though   all    the   Gods    their  garlands 

shower, 

I  too  may  bring  one  purple  flower. 
—  Alas  !  what  blossom  shall  I  bring, 
That  opens  in  my  Northern  spring? 
The  garden  beds  have  all  run  wild, 
So  trim  when  I  was  yet  a  child ; 
Flat  plantains  and  unseemly  stalks 
Have  crept  across  the  gravel  walks  ; 
The  vines  are  dead,  long,  long  ago, 
The  almond  buds  no  longer  blow. 


No  more  upon  its  mound  I  see 
The  azure,  plume-bound  fleur-de-lis  ; 
Where  once  the  tulips  used  to  show, 
In  straggling  tufts  the  pansies  grow; 
The  grass  has  quenched  my  white-rayed 

gem, 

The  flowering  "  Star  of  Bethlehem," 
Though  its  long  blade  of  glossy  green 
And  pallid  stripe  may  still  be  seen. 
Nature,  who  treads  her  nobles  down, 
And  gives  their  birthright  to  the  clown, 
Has  sown  her  base-born  weedy  things 
Above  the  garden's  queens  and  kings. 
—  Yet  one  sweet  flower  of  ancient  race 
Springs  in  the  old  familiar  place. 
When  SHOWS  were   melting  down  the 

vale, 

And  Earth  unlaced  her  icy  mail, 
And  March  his  stormy  trumpet  blew, 
And  tender  green  came  peeping  through, 
I  loved  the  earliest  one  to  seek 
That  broke  the  soil  with  emerald  beak, 
And  watch  the  trembling  bells  so  blue 
Spread  on  the  column  as  it  grew. 
Meek  child  of  earth !  thou  wilt  not  shame 
The  sweet,  dead  poet's  holy  name ; 
The  God  of  music  gave  thee  birth, 
Called  from  the  crimson-spotted  earth, 
Where,  sobbing  his  young  life  away, 
His  own  fair  Hyacinthus  lay. 
—  The  hyacinth  my  garden  gave 
Shall  lie  upon  that  Roman  grave ! 


AFTER  A  LECTURE  ON  SHELLEY. 

ONE  broad,  white  sail  in  Spezzia's  treach- 
erous bay ; 
On  comes  the  blast ;  too  daring  bark, 

beware ! 
The  cloud  has  clasped  her  ;  lo !  it  melts 

away ; 

The  wide,  waste  waters,  but  no  sail  is 
there. 


130 


SONGS   IN   MANY  KEYS. 


Morning  :  a  woman  looking  on  the  sea ; 
Midnight :  with  lamps  the  long  veran- 
da burns ; 
Come,  wandering  sail,  they  watch,  they 

burn  for  thee ! 

Suns  come  and  go,   alas  !    no  bark 
returns. 


And  feet  are  thronging  on  the  pebbly 


And  torches  flaring  in  the  weedy  caves, 
Where'er  the  waters  lay  with  icy  hands 
The  shapes  uplifted  from  their  coral 
graves. 


Vainly  they  seek  ;  the  idle  quest  is  o'er ; 
The  coarse,  dark  women,  with  their 

hanging  locks, 
And  lean,  wild  children  gather  from  the 

shore 

To  the  black  hovels  bedded  in  the 
rocks. 

But  Love  still  prayed,  with  agonizing 

wail, 
"  One,    one    last    look,    ye    heaving 

waters,  yield ! " 

Till  Ocean,  clashing  in  his  jointed  mail, 
Raised  the  pale  burden  on  his  level 
shield. 


Slow  from  the  shore  the  sullen  waves 

retire  ; 
His    form    a    nobler    element    shall 

claim ; 

Nature  baptized  him  in  ethereal  fire, 
And  Death  shall  crown  him  with  a 
wreath  of  flame. 


Fade,  mortal  semblance,  never  to  return  ; 

Swift  is  the  change  within  thy  crimson 

shroud  ; 
Seal  the  white  ashes  in  the  peaceful  urn ; 

All  else  has  risen  in  yon  silvery  cloud. 


Sleep  where  thy  gentle  Adonais  lies, 
Whose  open  page  lay  on  thy  dying 

heart, 
Both  in  the  smile  of  those  blue-vaulted 

skies, 

Earth's  fairest  dome  of  all  divinest 
art. 


Breathe  for  his  wandering  soul  one  pass- 
ing sigh, 
0  happier  Christian,  while  thine  eye 

grows  dim,  — 

In  all  the  mansions  of  the  house  on  high, 
Say  not  that  Mercy  has  not  one  for 
him! 


AT  THE  CLOSE  OF  A  COURSE  OF 
LECTURES. 

As  the  voice  of  the  watch  to  the  mari- 
ner's dream ; 

As  the  footstep  of  Spring  on  the  ice- 
girdled  stream, 

There  comes  a  soft  footstep,  a  whisper, 
to  me,  — 

The  vision  is  over,  —  the  rivulet  free ! 

We  have  trod  from  the  threshold  of  tur- 
bulent March, 

Till  the  green  scarf  of  April  is  hung  on 
the  larch, 

And  down  the  bright  hillside  that  wel- 
comes the  day, 

We  hear  the  warm  panting  of  beautiful 
May. 


We  will  part  before  Summer  has  opened 

her  wing, 
And  the  bosom  of  June  swells  the  bodice 

of  Spring, 
While  the  hope  of  the  season  lies  fresh 

in  the  bud, 
And  the  young  life  of  Nature  runs  warm 

in  our  blood. 


VIGNETTES. 


131 


It  is  but  a  word,  and  the  chain  is  un- 
bound, 

The  bracelet  of  steel  drops  unclasped  to 
the  ground ; 

No  hand  shall  replace  it,  —  it  rests 
where  it  fell,  — 

It  is  but  one  word  that  we  all  know  too 
well. 

Yet  the  hawk  with  the  wildness  un- 
tamed in  his  eye, 

If  you  free  him,  stares  round  ere  he 
springs  to  the  sky; 

The  slave  whom  no  longer  his  fetters 
restrain 

Will  turn  for  a  moment  and  look  at  his 
chain. 


Our  parting  is  not  as  the  friendship  of 

years, 
That  chokes  with  the  blessing  it  speaks 

through  its  tears ; 
We  have  walked  in  a  garden,  and,  looking 

around, 
Have   plucked  a  few  leaves  from  the 

myrtles  we  found. 

But  now  at  the  gate  of  the  garden  we 
stand, 

And  the  moment  has  come  for  unclasp- 
ing the  hand ; 

Will  you  drop  it  like  lead,  and  in  silence 
retreat 

Like  the  twenty  crushed  forms  from  an 
omnibus  seat  ? 


Nay  !   hold  it  one  moment,  —  the  last 

we  may  share,  — 
I  stretch  it  in  kindness,  and  not  for  my 

fare  ; 
You  may  pass  through  the  doorway  in 

rank  or  in  file, 
If  your  ticket  from  Nature  is  stamped 

with  a  smile. 


For  the  sweetest  of  smiles  is  the  smile 

as  we  part, 
When  the  light  round  the  lips  is  a  ray 

from  the  heart ; 
And  lest  a  stray  tear  from  its  fountain 

might  swell, 
We  will  seal  the  bright  spring  with  a 

quiet  farewell. 

THE  HUDSON. 

AFTER  A  LECTURE  AT  ALBANY. 

'T  WAS  a  vision  of  childhood  that  came 
with  its  dawn, 

Ere  the  curtain  that  covered  life's  day- 
star  was  drawn  ; 

The  nurse  told  the  tale  when  the  shad- 
ows grew  long, 

And  the  mother's  soft  lullaby  breathed 
it  in  song. 

"  There  flows  a  fair  stream  by  the  hills 

of  the  west,"  — 
She  sang  to  her  boy  as  he  lay  on  her 

breast  ; 
"Along  its  smooth  margin  thy  fathers 

have  played ; 
Beside  its  deep  waters  their  ashes  are 

laid." 


I  wandered  afar  from  the  land  of  my 
birth, 

I  saw  the  old  rivers,  renowned  upon 
earth, 

But  fancy  still  painted  that  wide-flow- 
ing stream 

With  the  many-hued  pencil  of  infancy's 
dream. 

I  saw  the  green  banks  of  the  castle- 
crowned  Rhine, 

Where  the  grapes  drink  the  moonlight 
and  change  it  to  wine  ; 


132 


SONGS   IN   MANY   KEYS. 


I   stood  by  the  Avon,  whose  waves  as 

they  glide 
Still  whisper  his  glory  who  sleeps  at 

their  side. 


But  my  heart  would  still  yearn  for  the 
sound  of  the  waves 

That  sing  as  they  flow  by  my  fore- 
fathers' graves ; 

If  manhood  yet  honors  my  cheek  with  a 
tear, 


I  care  not  who  sees  it,  —  no  blush  for  it 
here  ! 

Farewell  to  the  deep-bosomed  stream  of 

the  West ! 
I  fling  this  loose  blossom  to  float  on  its 

breast ; 
Nor  let  the  dear  love  of  its  children 

grow  cold, 
Till  the  channel  is  dry  where  its  waters 

have  rolled  ! 
December,  1854. 


A  POEM 

FOR  THE  MEETING  OF  THE  AMERICAN 
MEDICAL  ASSOCIATION  AT  NEW  YORK, 
MAY  5,  1853. 

I  HOLD  a  letter  in  my  hand,  — 

A  flattering  letter — more's  the  pity, — 
By  some  contriving  junto  planned, 

And  signed  per  order  of  Committee  ; 
It  touches  every  tenderest  spot,  — 

My  patriotic  predilections, 
My    well  -  known  —  something  —  don't 
ask  what, 

My  poor  old  songs,   my  kind  affec- 
tions. 

They  make  a  feast  on  Thursday  next, 

And  hope  to  make  the  feasters  merry  ; 
They  own  they  're  something  more  per- 
plexed 

For  poets  than  for  port  and  sherry  ;  — 
They  want  the  men  of — (word  torn 

out)  ; 
Our  friends  will  come  with  anxious 

faces 

(To  see  our  blankets  off,  no  doubt, 
And  trot  us  out  and  show  our  paces). 


They  hint  that  papers  by  the  score 

Are  rather  musty  kind  of  rations  ; 
They  don't  exactly  mean  a  bore, 

But  only  trying  to  the  patience  ; 
That  such  as  —  you  know  who  I  mean  — • 

Distinguished  for  their  —  what  d'ye 

call  'em  — 
Should  bring  the  dews  of  Hippocrene 

To  sprinkle  on  the  faces  solemn. 

—  The  same  old  story  ;  that 's  the  chaff 
To  catch  the  birds  that  sing  the  dit- 
ties ; 

Upon  my  soul,  it  makes  me  laugh 
To  read  these  letters   from  Commit- 
tees ! 

They  're  all  so  loving  and  so  fair,  — 
All  for  your  sake  such  kind  compunc- 
tion, — 

'T  would  save  your  carriage  half  its  wear 
To  touch  its  wheels  with  such  an  unc- 
tion ! 

Why,  who  am  I,  to  lift  me  here 
And  beg  such  learned  folk  to  listen,— 

To  ask  a  smile,  or  coax  a  tear 

Beneath  these  stoic  lids  to  glisten  ? 


A   SENTIMENT. 


133 


As  well  might  some  arterial  thread 
Ask  the  whole  frame  to  feel  it  gushing, 

While  throbbing  fierce  from  heel  to  head 
The  vast  aortic  tide  was  rushing. 

As  well  some  hair-like  nerve  might  strain 

To  set  its  special  streamlet  going, 
While  through  the  myriad-channelled 

brain 
The  burning  flood   of  thought  was 

flowing ; 

Or  trembling  fibre  strive  to  keep 
The    springing    haunches    gathered 

shorter, 

While  the  scourged  racer,  leap  on  leap, 
Was  stretching  through  the  last  hot 
quarter ! 

Ah  me  !  you  take  the  bud  that  came 
Self-sown  in  your  poor  garden's  bor- 
ders, 
And  hand  it  to  the  stately  dame 

That  florists  breed  for,  all  she  orders  ; 
She  thanks  you  —  it  was  kindly  meant — 
(A  pale  affair,  not  worth  the  keep- 
ing,)— 

Good  morning  ;  —  and  your  bud  is  sent 
To  join  the  tea-leaves  used  for  sweep- 
ing. 

Not  always  so,  kind  hearts  and  true, — 

For  such  I  know  are  round  me  beat- 
ing ; 
Is  not  the  bud  I  offer  you,  — 

Fresh  gathered  for  the  hour  of  meet- 
ing.— 
Pale  though  its  outer  leaves  may  be, 

Rose-red  in  all  its  inner  petals, 
Where  the  warm  life  we  cannot  see  — 

The  life  of  love  that  gave  it  —  settles. 

We  meet  from  regions  far  away, 
Like    rills  from    distant    mountains 
streaming ; 


The  sun  is  on  Francisco's  bay, 

O'er  Chesapeake  the  lighthouse  gleam- 
ing; 

While  summer  girds  the 'still  bayou 
In  chains  of  bloom,  her  bridal  token, 

Monadnock  sees  the  sky  grow  blue, 
His  crystal  bracelet  yet  unbroken. 

Yet  Nature  bears  the  selfsame  heart 

Beneath  her  russet-mantled  bosom, 
As  Avhere  with  burning  lips  apart 

She  breathes,   and  white  magnolias 

blossom  ; 
The  selfsame  founts  her  chalice  fill 

With  showery  sunlight  running  over, 
On  fiery  plain  and  frozen  hill, 

On  myrtle-beds  and  fields  of  clover. 

I  give  you  Home  1  its  crossing  lines 

United  in  one  golden  sutiire, 
And  showing  every  day  that  shines 

The  present  growing  to  the  future,  — 
A  flag  that  bears  a  hundred  stars 

In  one  bright  ring,    with    love  for 

centre, 

Fenced  round  with  white  and  crimson 
bars, 

No  prowling  treason  dares  to  enter  ! 

0  brothers,  home  may  be  a  word 

To  make  affection's  living  treasure  — 
The  wave  an  angel  might  have  stirred  — 

A  stagnant  pool  of  selfish  pleasure ; 
HOME  !   It  is  where  the  day-star  springs 

And  where  the  evening  sun  reposes, 
Where'er  the  eagle  spreads  his  wings, 

From    northern    pines   to    southern 
roses  ! 

A  SENTIMENT. 

A  TRIPLE  health  to  Friendship,  Sci- 
ence, Art, 

From  heads  and  hands  that  own  a  com- 
mon heart ! 


134 


SONGS   IN   MANY   KEYS. 


Each   in   its   turn   the   others'   willing 

slave,  — 
Each  in  its  season  strong  to  heal  and  save. 

Friendship's  blind  service,  in  the  hour 
of  need, 

Wipes  the  pale  face  —  and  lets  the  vic- 
tim bleed. 

Science  must  stop  to  reason  and  explain ; 

ART  claps  his  finger  on  the  streaming 
vein. 

But  Art's  brief  memory  fails  the  hand 
at  last ; 

Then  SCIENCE  lifts  the  flambeau  of  the 
past. 

When  both  their  equal  impotence  de- 
plore, — 

When  Learning  sighs,  and  Skill  can  do 
no  more,  — 

The  tear  of  FRIENDSHIP  pours  its  heav- 
enly balm, 

And  soothes  the  pang  no  anodyne  may 

calm  ! 
May  1,  1855. 


THE  NEW  EDEN. 

MEETING  OF  THE  BERKSHIRE  HORTI- 
CULTURAL SOCIETY,  AT  STOCKBRIDGE, 
SEPT.  13,  1854. 

SCARCE  could  the  parting  ocean  close, 
Seamed  by  the  Mayflower's  cleaving 

bow, 

When  o'er  the  rugged  desert  rose 
The  waves  that  tracked  the  Pilgrim's 
plough. 

Then  sprang  from  many  a  rock-strewn 
field 

The  rippling  grass,  the  nodding  grain, 
Such  growths  as  English  meadows  yield 

To  scanty  sun  and  frequent  rain. 


But  wh«n  fche  fiery  days  were  done, 
And  Autumn  brought  his  purple  haze, 

Then,  kindling  in  the  slanted  sun, 
The   hillsides  gleamed  with  golden 
maize. 

The  food  was  scant,  the  fruits  were  few : 
A  red-streak  glistening  here  and  there; 

Perchance  in  statelier  precincts  grew 
Some  stern  old  Puritanic  pear. 

Austere  in  taste,  and  tough  at  core, 
Its  unrelenting  bulk  was  shed, 

To  ripen  in  the  Pilgrim's  store 
When  all  the  summer  sweets  were  fled. 

Such  was  his  lot,  to  front  the  storm 
With  iron  heart  and  marble  brow, 

Nor  ripen  till  his  earthly  form 
Was  cast  from  life's  autumnal  bough. 

—  But  ever  on  the  bleakest  rock 
We  bid  the  brightest  beacon  glow, 

And  still  upon  the  thorniest  stock 
The  sweetest  roses  love  to  blow. 

So  on  our  rude  and  wintry  soil 
We  feed  the  kindling  flame  of  art, 

And  steal  the  tropic's  blushing  spoil 
To  bloom  on  Nature's  ice-clad  heart. 

See  how  the  softening  Mother's  breast 
Warms    to    her    children's    patient 
wiles,  — 

Her  lips  by  loving  Labor  pressed 

Break  in  a  thousand  dimpling  smiles, 

From  when  the  flushing  bud  of  June 
Dawns  with  its  first  auroral  hue, 

Till  shines  the  rounded  harvest-moon, 
And  velvet  dahlias  drink  the  dew. 

Nor  these  the  only  gifts  she  brings  ; 

Look    where    the    laboring    orchard 

groans, 
And  yields  its  beryl-threaded  strings 

For  chestnut  burs  and  hemlock  cones. 


THE   NEW   EDEN. 


135 


Dear  though  the  shadowy  maple  be, 
And  dearer  still  the  whispering  pine, 

Dearest  yon  russet-laden  tree 

Browned  by  the  heavy  rubbing  kine  ! 

There  childhood  flung  its  rustling  stone, 
There  venturous  boyhood  learned  to 
climb,  — 

How  well  the  early  graft  was  known 
Whose  fruit  was  ripe  ere  harvest-time ! 

Nor  be  the  Fleming's  pride  forgot, 
With  swinging  drops  and  drooping 

bells, 
Freckled  and  splashed  with  streak  and 

spot, 
On  the  warm-breasted,  sloping  swells ; 

Nor  Persia's  painted  garden-queen,  — 
Frail  Houri  of  the  trellised  wall,  — 

Her    deep-cleft    bosom     scarfed    with 

green,  — 
Fairest  to  see,  and  first  to  fall. 


When  man  provoked  his  mortal  doom, 
And  Eden  trembled  as  lie  fell, 
When  blossoms  sighed  their  last  per- 
fume, 

And  branches  waved  their  long  fare- 
well, 

One  sucker  crept  beneath  the  gate, 
One  seed  was  wafted  o'er  the  wall, 

One    bough    sustained    his    trembling 

weight ; 
These  left  the  garden,  — these  were  all. 

And  far  o'er  many  a  distant  zone 
These  wrecks  of  Eden  still  are  flung  : 

The  fruits  that  Paradise  hath  known 
Are  still  in  earthly  gardens  hung. 

Yes,  by  our  own  unstoried  stream 
The  pink-white  apple-blossoms  burst 


That  saw  the  young  Euphrates  gleam,  — 
That  Gihon's  circling  waters  nursed. 

For  us  the  ambrosial  pear  displays 
The  wealth  its  arching  branches  hold, 

Bathed  by  a  hundred  summery  days 
In  floods  of  mingling  fire  and  gold. 

And  here,  where  beauty's  cheek  of  flame 
With  morning's  earliest  beam  is  fed, 

The  sunset-painted  peach  may  claim 
To  rival  its  celestial  red. 


—  What  though  in  some  unmoistened 
vale 

The  summer  leaf  grow  brown  and  sere, 
Say,  shall  our  star  of  promise  fail 

That  circles  half  the  rolling  sphere, 

From  beaches  salt  with  bitter  spray, 
O'er  prairies  green  with  softest  rain, 

And  ridges  bright  with  evening's  ray, 
To  rocks   that   shade  the  stormless 
main  ? 

If  by  our  slender- threaded  streams 
The  blade  and  leaf  and  blossom  die, 

If,    drained    by    noontide's    parching 

beams, 
The  milky  veins  of  Nature  dry, 

See,  with  her  swelling  bosom  bare, 
Yon  wild-eyed  Sister  in  the  West,  — 

The  ring  of  Empire  round  her  hair, 
The  Indian's  wampum  on  her  breast ! 

We  saw  the  August  sun  descend, 
Day  after  day,  with  blood-red  stain, 

And  the  blue  mountains  dimly  blend 
With  smoke-wreaths  from  the  burning 
plain  ; 

Beneath  the  hot  Sirocco's  wings 
We  sat  and  told  the  withering  hours. 


136 


SONGS   IN   MANY  KEYS. 


Till  Heaven  unsealed  its  hoarded  springs, 
And  bade  them  leap  in  flashing  showers. 

Yet  in  our  Ishmael's  thirst  we  knew 
The  mercy  of  the  Sovereign  hand 

Would  pour  the  fountain's  quickening 

dew 
To  feed  some  harvest  of  the  land. 

No  flaming  swords  of  wrath  surround 
Our  second  Garden  of  the  Blest ; 

It  spreads  beyond  its  rocky  bound, 
It  climbs  Nevada's  glittering  crest. 

God  keep  the  tempter  from  its  gate ! 

God  shield  the  children,  lest  they  fall 
From  their  stern  fathers'  free  estate,  — 

Till  Ocean  is  its  only  wall ! 


SEMICENTENNIAL    CELEBRATION     OF 
THE  NEW  ENGLAND  SOCIETY, 

NEW  YORK,    DEC.    22,  1855. 

NEW  ENGLAND,  we  love  thee  ;  no  time 

can  erase 
From  the  hearts  of  thy  children  the  smile 

on  thy  face. 
T  is  the  mother's  fond  look  of  affection 

and  pride, 
As  she  gives  her  fair  son  to  the  arms  of 

his  bride. 

Pis  bride  may  be  fresher  in  beauty's 

young  flower ; 
She  may  blaze  in  the  jewels  she  brings 

with  her  dower. 
But  passion  must  chill  in  Time's  pitiless 

blast ; 
The  one  that  first  loved  us  will  love  to 

the  last. 

You  have  left  the  dear  land  of  the  lake 

and  the  hill, 
But  its  winds  and  its  waters  will  talk 

with  you  still. 


"Forget  not,"  they  whisper,  "your  love 

is  our  debt," 
And  echo  breathes  softly,  "We  never 

forget." 

The  banquet's  gay  splendors  are  gleam- 
ing around, 

But  your  hearts  have  flown  back  o'er  the 
waves  of  the  Sound  ; 

They  have  found  the  brown  home  where 
their  pulses  were  born  ; 

They  are  throbbing  their  way  through 
the  trees  and  the  corn. 

There  are  roofs  you  remember,  —  their 

glory  is  fled  ; 
There  are  mounds  in  the  churchyard,  — 

one  sigh  for  the  dead. 
There  are  wrecks,  there  are  ruins,  all 

scattered  around  ; 
But  Earth  has  no  spot  like  that  corner 

of  ground. 

Come,  let  us  be  cheerful,  —  remember 

last  night, 
How  they  cheered  us,  and  —  never  mind 

—  meant  it  all  right ; 
To-night,  we  harm  nothing,  —  we  love 

in  the  lump  ; 
Here 's  a  bumper  to  Maine,  in  the  juice 

of  the  pump ! 

Here 's  to  all  the  good  people,  wherever 
they  be, 

Who  have  grown  in  the  shade  of  the  lib- 
erty-tree ; 

We  all  love  its  leaves,  and  its  blossoms 
and  fruit, 

But  pray  have  a  care  of  the  fence  round 
its  root. 

We  should  like  to  talk  big ;  it 's  a  kind 

of  a  right, 
When  the  tongue  has  got  loose  and  the 

waistband  grown  tight ; 


FAREWELL.  —  FOR  THE  MEETING  OF  THE  BURNS  CLUB.    137 


But,  as  pretty  Miss  Prudence  remarked 

to  her  beau, 
On  its  own  heap  of  compost,  no  biddy 

should  crow. 

Enough !  There  are  gentlemen  waiting 
to  talk, 

Whose  words  are  to  mine  as  the  flower 
to  the  stalk. 

Stand  by  your  old  mother  whatever  be- 
fall; 

God  bless  all  her  children  !  Good  night 
to  you  all ! 


FAREWELL. 

TO  J.    K.   LOWELL. 

FAREWELL,  for  the  bark  has  her  breast 

to  the  tide, 
And   the    rough   arms    of   Ocean    are 

stretched  for  his  bride; 
The  winds  from  the  mountain  stream 

over  the  bay; 
One  clasp  of  the  hand,  then  away  and 

away ! 

I  see  the  tall  mast  as  it  rocks  by  the 

shore ; 

The  sun  is  declining,  I  see  it  once  more  ; 
To-day  like  the  blade  in  a  thick-waving 

field, 
To-morrow  the  spike  on  a  Highlander's 

shield. 

Alone,  while  the  cloud  pours  its  treach- 
erous breath, 

With  the  blue  lips  all  round  her  whose 
kisses  are  death ; 

Ah,  think  not  the  breeze  that  is  urging 
her  sail 

Has  left  her  unaided  to  strive  with  the 


There  are  hopes  that  play  round  her, 
like  fires  on  the  mast, 


That  will  light  the  dark  hour  till  its 
danger  has  past; 

There  are  prayers  that  will  plead  with 
the  storm  when  it  raves, 

And  whisper  "Be  still!"  to  the  turbu- 
lent waves. 

Nay,    think  not   that  Friendship  has 

called  us  in  vain 
To  join  the  fair  ring  ere  we  break  it 

again; 
There  is  strength  in  its  circle,  —  you 

lose  the  bright  star, 
But  its  sisters  still  chain  it,  though 

shining  afar. 

I  give  you  one  health  in  the  juice  of  the 
vine, 

The  blood  of  the  vineyard  shall  mingle 
with  mine ; 

Thus,  thus  let  us  drain  the  last  dew- 
drops  of  gold, 

As  we  empty  our  hearts  of  the  blessinga 
they  hold. 

April  29,  1855. 


FOR    THE    MEETING    OF   THE   BURNS 
CLUB. 

1856. 

THE  mountains  glitter  in  the  snow 

A  thousand  leagues  asunder ; 
Yet  here,  amid  the  banquet's  glow, 

I  hear  their  voice  of  thunder ; 
Each  giant's  ice-bound  goblet  clinks ; 

A  flowing  stream  is  summoned ; 
Wachusett  to  Ben  Nevis  drinks ; 

Monadnock  to  Ben  Lomond ! 

Though  years  have  clipped  the  eagle's 
plume 

That  crowned  the  chieftain's  bonnet, 
The  sun  still  sees  the  heather  bloom, 

The  silver  mists  lie  on  it ; 


138 


SONGS   IN   MANY  KEYS. 


With  tartan  kilt  and  philibeg, 
What  stride  was  ever  bolder 

Than  his  who  showed  the  naked  leg 
Beneath  the  plaided  shoulder? 

The  echoes  sleep  on  Cheviot's  hills, 

That  heard  the  bugles  blowing 
When  down  their  sides  the  crimson  rills 

With  mingled  blood  were  flowing ; 
The  hunts  where  gallant  hearts  were 
game, 

The  slashing  on  the  border, 
The  raid  that  swooped  with  sword  and 
flame, 

Give  place  to  "law  and  order." 

Not  while  the  rocking  steeples  reel 

With  midnight  tocsins  ringing, 
Not  while  the  crashing  war-notes  peal, 

God  sets  his  poets  singing ; 
The  bird  is  silent  in  the  night, 

Or  shrieks  a  cry  of  warning 
While    fluttering   round   the    beacon- 
light,  - 

But  hear  him  greet  the  morning ! 

The  lark  of  Scotia's  morning  sky ! 

Whose  voice  may  sing  his  praises  ? 
With  Heaven's  own  sunlight  in  his  eye, 

He  walked  among  the  daisies, 
Till  through  the  cloud  of  fortune's  wrong 

He  soared  to  fields  of  glory ; 
But  left  his  land  her  sweetest  song 

And  earth  her  saddest  story. 

'T  is  not  the  forts  the  builder  piles 

That  chain  the  earth  together ; 
The  wedded  crowns,  the  sister  isles, 

Would  laugh  at  such  a  tether ; 
The  kindling  thought,  the  throbbing 
words, 

That  set  the  ptilses  beating, 
Are  stronger  than  the  myriad  swords 

Of  mighty  armies  meeting. 


Thus  while  within  the  banquet  glows, 

Without,  the  wild  winds  whistle, 
We  drink  a  triple  health,  —  the  Rose, 

The  Shamrock,  and  the  Thistle  ! 
Their  blended  hues  shall  never  fade 

Till  War  has  hushed  his  cannon,  — 
Close-twined  as  ocean-currents  braid 

The  Thames,  the  Clyde,  the  Shannon! 


ODE  FOR  WASHINGTON'S  BIRTHDAY. 

CELEBRATION   OF    THE   MERCANTILE   LI- 
BRARY ASSOCIATION,    FEB.    22,  1856. 

WELCOME  to  the  day  returning, 

Dearer  still  as  ages  flow, 
While  the  torch  of  Faith  is  burning, 

Long  as  Freedom's  altars  glow ! 
See  the  hero  whom  it  gave  us 

Slumbering  on  a  mother's  breast ; 
For  the  arm  he  stretched  to  save  us, 

Be  its  morn  forever  blest ! 

Hear  the  tale  of  youthful  glory, 

While  of  Britain's  rescued  band 
Friend  and  foe  repeat  the  story, 

Spread  his  fame  o'er  sea  and  land, 
Where  the  red  cross,  proudly  streaming, 

Flaps  above  the  frigate's  deck, 
Where  the  golden  lilies,  gleaming, 

Star  the  watch-towers  of  Quebec. 

Look !     The  shadow  on  the  dial 

Marks  the  hour  of  deadlier  strife ; 
Days  of  terror,  years  of  trial, 

Scourge  a  nation  into  life. 
Lo,  the  youth,  become  her  leader  ! 

All  her  baffled  tyrants  yield ; 
Through  his  arm  the  Lord  hath  freed 
her; 

Crown  him  on  the  tented  field ! 

Vain  is  Empire's  mad  temptation  ! 
Not  for  him  an  earthly  crown ! 


BIRTHDAY  OF  DANIEL  WEBSTER. 


139 


He  whose  sword  hath  freed  a  nation  ! 

Strikes  the  offered  sceptre  down. 
See  the  throneless  Conqueror  seated, 

Ruler  by  a  people's  choice  ; 
See  the  Patriot's  task  completed  ; 

Hear  the  Father's  dying  voice  ! 

"  By  the  name  that  you  inherit, 

By  the  sufferings  you  recall, 
Cherish  the  fraternal  spirit ; 

Love  your  country  first  of  all ! 
Listen  not  to  idle  questions 

If  its  bands  may  be  untied  ; 
Doubt  the  patriot  whose  suggestions 

Strive  a  nation  to  divide ! " 

Father  !     We,  whose  ears  have  tingled 

With  the  discord-notes  of  shame,  — 
We,  whose  sires  their  blood  have  mingled 

In  the  battle's  thunder-flame,  — 
Gathering,  while  this  holy  morning 

Lights  the  land  from  sea  to  sea, 
Hear  thy  counsel,  heed  thy  warning  ; 

Trust  us,  while  we  honor  thee  ! 


BIRTHDAY  OF  DANIEL  WEBSTER. 

JANUARY  18,  1856. 

WHEN  life  hath  run  its  largest  round 
Of  toil  and  triumph,  joy  and  woe, 

How  brief  a  storied  page  is  found 
To  compass  all  its  outward  show ! 

The  world-tried  sailor  tires  and  droops  ; 

His  flag  is  rent,  his  keel  forgot ; 
His  farthest  voyages  seem  but  loops 

That  float  from  life's  entangled  knot. 

But  when  within  the  narrow  space 
Some   larger    soul    hath    lived    and 

wrought, 

Whose  sight  was  open  to  embrace 
The  boundless  realms   of  deed   and 
thought,  — 


When,  stricken  by  the  freezing  blast, 
A  nation's  living  pillars  fall, 

How  rich  the  storied  page,  how  vast, 
A  word,  a  whisper,  can  recall ! 

No  medal  lifts  its  fretted  face, 

Nor  speaking  marble  cheats  your  eye, 

Yet,  while  these  pictured  lines  I  trace- 
A  living  image  passes  by  : 

A  roof  beneath  the  mountain  pines ; 

The  cloisters  of  a  hill-girt  plain ; 
The  front  of  life's  embattled  lines ; 

A  mound  beside  the  heaving  main. 

These  are  the  scenes :  a  boy  appears; 

Set  life's  round  dial  in  the  sun, 
Count  the  swift  arc  of  seventy  years, 

His  frame  is  dust ;  his  task  is  done. 

Yet  pause  upon  the  noontide  hour,  . 

Ere  the  declining  sun  has  laid 
His  bleaching  rays  on  manhood's  power, 

And  look  upon  the  mighty  shade. 

No  gloom  that  stately  shape  can  hide, 
No  change  uncrown  its  brow ;  behold  ! 

Dark,    calm,   large-fronted,    lightning- 
eyed, 
Earth  has  no  double  from  its  mould  ! 

Ere  from  the  fields  by  valor  won 
The  battle-smoke  had  rolled  away, 

And  bared  the  blood-red  setting  sun, 
His  eyes  were  opened  on  the  day. 

His  land  was  but  a  shelving  strip 
Black  with  the  strife  that  made  it  free ; 

He  lived  to  see  its  banners  dip 
Their  fringes  in  the  Western  sea. 

The  boundless  prairies  learned  his  name, 
His  words  the  mountain  echoes  knew, 

The  Northern  breezes  swept  his  fam» 
From  icy  lake  to  warm  bayou. 


140 


SONGS  IN  MANY  KEYS. 


In  toil  he  lived  ;  in  peace  lie  died  ; 

When  life's  full  cycle  was  complete, 
Put  off  his  robes  of  power  and  pride, 

And  laid  them  at  his  Master's  feet. 

His  rest  is  by  the  storm-swept  waves 
Whom  life's  wild  tempests  roughly 
tried, 

Whose  heart  was  like  the  streaming  caves 
Of  ocean,  throbbing  at  his  side. 


Death's  cold  white  hand  is  like  the  snow 
Laid  softly  on  the  furrowed  hill, 

It  hides  the  broken  seams  below, 
And    leaves    the    summit    brighter 
still. 

In  vain  the  envious  tongue  upbraids  ; 

His  name  a  nation's  heart  shall  keep 
Till  morning's  latest  sunlight  fades 

On  the  blue  tablet  of  the  desp ! 


THE  VOICELESS.  —  THE  PROMISE. 


141 


II.  -1857-1861. 


THE  VOICELESS. 

WE  count  the  broken  lyres  that  rest 
Where    the    sweet    wailing    singers 

slumber, 

But  o'er  their  silent  sister's  breast 
The  wild-flowers  who  will  stoop  to 

number  ? 

A  few  can  touch  the  magic  string, 
And  noisy   Fame  is  proud    to  win 

them  :  — 
Alas  for  those  that  never  sing, 

But  die  with  all  their  music  in  them  ! 

Nay,  grieve  not  for  the  dead  alone 
Whose  song  has  told  their  hearts'  sad 

story,  — 

Weep  for  the  voiceless,  who  have  known 
The  cross  without  the  crown  of  glory  ! 
Not  where  Leucadian  breezes  sweep 

O'er  Sappho's  memory-haunted  billow, 
But  where  the  glistening    night-dews 

weep 

On  nameless  sorrow's  churchyard  pil- 
low. 

0  hearts  that  break  and  give  no  sign 

Save  whitening  lip  and  fading  tresses, 
Till  Death  pours  out  his  cordial  wine 

Slow-dropped  from  Misery's  crushing 

presses,  — 
tf  singing  breath  or  echoing  chord 

To  every  hidden  pang  were  given, 
What  endless  melodies  were  poured, 

As  sad  as  earth,  as  sweet  as  heaven  ! 

THE  TWO  STREAMS. 

BEHOLD  the  rocky  wall 
That  down  its  sloping  sides 


Pours  the  swift  rain-drops,  blending,  as 

they  fall, 
In  rushing  river-tides  ! 

Yon  stream,  whose  sources  run 
Turned  by  a  pebble's  edge, 
Is  Athabasca,  rolling  toward  the  sun 
Through  the  cleft  mountain-ledge. 

The  slender  rill  had  strayed, 
But  for  the  slanting  stone,  ' 
To  evening's  ocean,  with  the  tangled 

braid 
Of  foam-flecked  Oregon. 

So  from  the  heights  of  Will 
Life's  parting  stream  descends, 
And,  as  a  moment  turns  its  slender  rill, 
Each  widening  torrent  bends,  — 

From  the  same  cradle's  side, 
From  the  same  mother's  knee,  — 
One  to  long  darkness  and  the  frozen  tide, 
One  to  the  Peaceful  Sea  ! 


THE  PROMISE. 

NOT  charity  we  ask, 
Nor  yet  thy  gift  refuse  ; 
Please  thy  light  fancy  with  the  easy  task 
Only  to  look  and  choose. 

The  little-heeded  toy 
That  wins  thy  treasured  gold 
May  be  the  dearest  memory,  holiest  joy, 
Of  coming  years  untold. 

Heaven  rains  on  every  heart, 
But  there  its  showers  divide, 


142 


SONGS   IN   MANY  KEYS. 


The  drops  of  mercy  choosing  as  they  part 
The  dark  or  glowing  side. 

One  kindly  deed  may  turn 
The  fountain  of  thy  soul 
To  love's  sweet  day-star,  that  shall  o'er 

thee  burn 
Long  as  its  currents  roll ! 

The  pleasures  thou  hast  planned, — 
Where  shall  their  memory  be 
When  the  white  angel  with  the  freezing 

hand 
Shall  sit  and  watch  by  thee  ? 

Living,  thou  dost  not  live, 
If  mercy's  spring  run  dry  ; 
What  Heaven  has  lent  thee  wilt  thou 

freely  give, 
Dying,  thou  shalt  not  die  ! 

HE  promised  even  so  ! 
To  thee  His  lips  repeat,  — 
Behold,  the  tears  that  soothed  thy 

sister's  woe 
Have  washed  thy  Master's  feet ! 

March  20, 1859. 

AVIS. 

I  MAY  not  rightly  call  thy  name,  — 
Alas  !  thy  forehead  never  knew 

The  kiss  that  happier  children  claim, 
Nor  glistened  with  baptismal  dew. 

Daughter  of  want  and  wrong  and  woe, 
I  saw  thee  with  thy  sister-band, 

Snatched  from  the  whirlpool's  narrowing 

flow 
By  Mercy's  strong  yet  trembling  hand. 

— ' '  Avis ! " — With  Saxon  eye  and  cheek, 
At  once  a  woman  and  a  child, 

The  saint  uncrowned  I  came  to  seek 
Drew  near  to  greet  us,  —  spoke,  and 
smiled. 


God  gave  that  sweet  sad  smile  she  wore 
All  wrong  to  shame,  all  souls  to  win,  — 

A  heavenly  sunbeam  sent  before 

Her  footsteps  through  a  world  of  sin. 

—  "  And  who  is  Avis  ? "  —  Hear  the  tale 
The    calm  -  voiced    matrons    gravely 
tell,  — 

The  story  known  through  all  the  vale 
Where  Avis  and  her  sisters  dwell. 

With  the  lost  children  nmning  wild, 
Strayed  from  the  hand  of  human  care, . 

They  find  one  little  refuse  child 
Left  helpless  in  its  poisoned  lair. 

The  primal  mark  is  on  her  face,  — 
The  chattel-stamp,  —  the  pariah-stain 

That  follows  still  her  hunted  race,  — 
The  curse  without  the  crime  of  Cain. 

How  shall  our  smooth-turned  phrase  re- 
late 

The  little  suffering  outcast's  ail  ? 
Not  Lazarus  at  the  rich  man's  gate 
So  turned  the  rose-wreathed  revellers 
pale. 

Ah,  veil  the  living  death  from  sight 
That  wounds  our  beauty-loving  eye ! 

The  children  turn  in  selfish  fright, 
The  white-lipped  nurses  hurry  by. 

Take  her,  dread  Angel !     Break  in  love 
This  bruised  reed  and  make  it  thine  !  — • 

No  voice  descended  from  above, 
But  Avis  answered,  "She  is  mine." 

The  task  that  dainty  menials  spurn 
The  fair  young  girl  has  made  her  own  ; 

Her  heart  shall  teach,  her  hand  shall 

learn 
The  toils,  the  duties  yet  unknown. 

So  Love  and  Death  in  lingering  strife 
Stand  face  to  face  from  day  to  day, 


THE   LIVING   TEMPLE. 


143 


Still  battling  for  the  spoil  of  Life 
While  the  slow  seasons  creep  away. 

Love  conquers  Death  ;  the  prize  is  won  ; 

See  to  her  joyous  bosom  pressed 
The  dusky  daughter  of  the  sun,  — 

The  bronze  against  the  marble  breast ! 

Her  task  is  done  ;  no  voice  divine 
Has  crowned  her  deeds  with  saintly 

fame. 
No  eye  can  see  the  aureole  Shine 

That  rings  her  brow  with  heavenly 
flame. 

Yet  what  has  holy  page  more  sweet, 
Or  what  had  woman's  love  more  fair, 

When  Mary  clasped  her  Saviour's  feet 
With  flowing  eyes  and  streaming  hair  ? 

Meek  child  of  sorrow,  walk  unknown, 
The  Angel  of  that  earthly  throng, 

And  let  thine  image  live  alone 
To  hallow  this  unstudied  song  ! 


THE  LIVING  TEMPLE. 

NOT  in  the  world  of  light  alone, 
Where  God  has  built  his  blazing  throne 
Nor  yet  alone  in  earth  below, 
With  belted  seas  that  come  and  go, 
And  endless  isles  of  sunlit  green, 
Is  all  thy  Maker's  glory  seen  : 
Look  in  upon  thy  wondrous  frame,  — 
Eternal  wisdom  still  the  same  ! 

The  smooth,    soft  air  with   pulse-like 

waves 
Flows  murmuring  through  its  hidden 

caves, 
Whose   streams  of  brightening  purple 

rush, 

Fired  with  a  new  and  livelier  blush, 
While  all  their  burden  of  decay 
The  ebbing  current  steals  away, 


And  red  with  Nature's  flame  they  start 
From  the  warm  fountains  of  the  heart. 

No  rest  that  throbbing  slave  may  ask, 
Forever  quivering  o'er  his  task, 
While  far  and  wide  a  crimson  jet 
Leaps  forth  to  fill  the  woven  net 
Which  in  unnumbered  crossing  tides 
The  flood  of  burning  life  divides, 
Then,  kindling  each  decaying  part, 
Creeps  back  to  find  the  throbbing  heart. 

But  warmed  with  that  unchanging  flame 
Behold  the  outward  moving  frame, 
Its  living  marbles  jointed  strong 
With  glistening  band  and  silvery  thong, 
And  linked  to  reason's  guiding  reins 
By  myriad  rings  in  trembling  chains, 
Each  graven  with  the  threaded  zone 
Which  claims  it  as  the  master's  own. 

See  how  yon  beam  of  seeming  white 
Is  braided  out  of  seven-hued  light, 
Yet  in  those  lucid  globes  no  ray 
By  any  chance  shall  break  astray. 
Hark  how  the  rolling  surge  of  sound, 
Arches  and  spirals  circling  round, 
Wakes  the  hushed  spirit  through  thine 

ear 
With  music  it  is  heaven  to  hear. 

Then  mark  the  cloven  sphere  that  holds 
All  thought  in  its  mysterious  folds. 
That  feels  sensations  faintest  thrill, 
And  flashes  forth  the  sovereign  will ; 
Think  on  the  stormy  world  that  dwells 
Locked  in  its  dim  and  clustering  cells ! 
The  lightning  gleams  of  power  it  sheds 
Along  its  hollow  glassy  threads  ! 

0  Father  !  grant  thy  love  divine 
To  make  these  mystic  temples  thine  ! 
When  wasting  age  and  wearying  strife 
Have  sapped  the  leaning  walls  of  life, 


144 


SONGS  IN   MANY  KEYS. 


"When  darkness  gathers  over  all, 
And  the  last  tottering  pillars  fall, 
Take  the  poor  dust  thy  mercy  warms, 
And  mould  it  into  heavenly  forms  ! 


AT  A  BIRTHDAY  FESTIVAL 

TO  J.    R.    LOWELL. 

WE  will  not  speak  of  years  to-night,  — 
For  what  have  years  to  bring 

But  larger  floods  of  love  and  light, 
And  sweeter  songs  to  sing  ? 

We  will  not  drown  in  wordy  praise 
The  kindly  thoughts  that  rise  ; 

If  Friendship  own  one  tender  phrase, 
He  reads  it  in  our  eyes. 

We  need  not  waste  our  school-boy  art 
To  gild  this  notch  of  Time  ;  — 

Forgive  me  if  my  wayward  heart 
Has  throbbed  in  artless  rhyme. 

Enough  for  him  the  silent  grasp 
That  knits  us  hand  in  hand, 

And  he  the  bracelet's  radiant  clasp 
That  locks  our  circling  band. 

Strength  to  his  hours  of  manly  toil ! 

Peace  to  his  starlit  dreams  ! 
Who  loves  alike  the  furrowed  soil, 

The  music-haunted  streams  ! 

Sweet  smiles  to  keep  forever  bright 

The  sunshine  on  his  lips, 
And  faith  that  sees  the  ring  of  light 

Round  nature's  last  eclipse ! 

February  22,  1859. 

A  BIRTHDAY  TRIBUTE. 

TO  J.    F.    CLARKE. 

WHO  is  the  shepherd  sent  to  lead, 
Through  pastures  green,  the  Master's 
sheep  ? 


What  guileless  "  Israelite  indeed  " 
The  folded  flock  may  watch  and  keep  ? 

He  who  with  manliest  spirit  joins 
The  heart  of  gentlest  human  mould, 

With  burning  light  and  girded  loins, 
To  guide  the  flock,  or  watch  the  fold  ; 

True  to  all  Truth  the  world  denies, 
Not  tongue-tied  for  its  gilded  sin  ; 

Not  always  right  in  all  men's  eyes, 
But  faithful  to  the  light  within  ; 

Who  asks  no  meed  of  earthly  fame, 
Who  knows  no  earthly  master's  call, 

Who  hopes  for  man,  through  guilt  and 

shame, 
Still  answering,  "  God  is  over  all"  ; 

Who  makes  another's  grief  his  own, 
Whose  smile  lends  joy  a  double  cheer ; 

Where    lives    the    saint,   if    such    be 

known  ?  — 
Speak  softly,  —  such  an  one  is  here  ! 

0  faithful  shepherd  !  thou  hast  borne 
The  heat  and  burden  of  the  day  ; 

Yet,  o'er  thee,  bright  with  beams  un- 
shorn, 
The  sun  still  shows  thine  onward  way. 

To  thee  our  fragrant  love  we  bring, 
In  buds  that  April  half  displays, 

Sweet  first-born  angels  of  the  spring, 
Caught  in  their  opening  hymn  of 
praise. 

What  though  our  faltering  accents  fail, 
Our  captives  know  their  message  well, 

Our  words  unbreathed  their  lips  exhale, 
And  sigh  more  love  than  ours  can  tell 

April  4,  i860. 


JAMES    RUSSELL    LOWELL.     Page  144. 


THE  GRAY  CHIEF.  —  THE  LAST  LOOK. 


145 


THE  GRAY  CHIEF. 

IFOR  THE   MEETING  OF  THE  MASSACHU- 
SETTS MEDICAL  SOCIETY,   1859. 

"T  is  sweet  to  fight  our  battles  o'er, 
And  crown  with  honest  praise 

The  gray  old   chief,    who    strikes    no 

more 
The  blow  of  better  days. 

Before  the  true  and  trusted  sage 
With  willing  hearts  we  bend, 

When  years  have  touched  with  hallowing 

age 
Our  Master,  Guide,  and  Friend. 

For  all  his  manhood's  labor  past, 
For  love  and  faith  long  tried, 

His  age  is  honored  to  the  last, 

Though  strength  and  will  have  died. 

But  when,  untamed  by  toil  and  strife, 

Full  in  our  front  he  stands, 
The  torch  of  light,  the  shield  of  life, 

Still  lifted  in  his  hands, 

No  temple,  though  its  walls  resound 
With  bursts  of  ringing  cheers, 

Can  hold  the  honors  that  surround 
His  manhood's  twice-told  years  ! 


THE  LAST  LOOK. 

W.   W.    SWAIN. 

BEHOLD  —  not  him  we  knew ! 
This  was  the  prison  which  his    soul 

looked  through, 
Tender,  and  brave,  and  true. 

His  voice  no  more  is  heard  ; 
And  his  dead  name  —  that  dear  familiar 

word  — 
Lies  on  our  lips  unstirred. 


He  spake  with  poet's  tongue  ; 
Living,  for  him  the  minstrel's  lyre  was 

strung  : 
He  shall  not  die  unsung  ! 

Grief  tried  his  love,  and  pain ; 
And  the  long  bondage  of  his  martyr- 
chain 
Vexed  his  sweet  soul,  —  in  vain  ! 

It  felt  life's  surges  break, 
As,  girt  with  stormy  seas,  his  island 

lake, 
Smiling  while  tempests  wake. 

How  can  we  sorrow  more  ? 
Grieve  not  for  him  whose  heart  had 

gone  before 
To  that  untrodden  shore  ! 

Lo,  through  its  leafy  screen, 
A  gleam  of  sunlight  on  a  ring  of  green, 
Untrodden,  half  unseen ! 

Here  let  his  body  rest, 
Where  the  calm  shadows  that  his  soul 

loved  best 
May  slide  above  his  breast. 

Smooth  his  uncurtained  bed ; 
And  if  some  natural  tears  are  softly  shed, 
It  is  not  for  the  dead. 

Fold  the  green  turf  aright 
For  the  long  hours  before  the  morning's 

light, 
And  say  the  last  Good  Night ! 

And  plant  a  clear  white  stone 
Close  by  those  mounds  which  hold  his 

loved,  his  own,  — 
Lonely,  but  not  alone. 

Here  let  him  sleeping  lie, 
Till  Heaven's  bright  watchers  slumber 

in  the  sky 
And  Death  himself  shall  die  J 

NAUSHON,  September  22, 1858. 


146 


SONGS  IN   MANY   KEYS. 


IN    MEMORY    OF    CHARLES    WENT- 
WORTH  UPHAM,  JR. 

HE  was  all  sunshine  ;  in  his  face 
The  very  soul  of  sweetness  shone  ; 

Fairest  and  gentlest  of  his  race  ; 
None  like  him  we  can  call  our  own. 

Something  there  was  of  one  that  died 
In  her  fresh  spring-time  long  ago, 

Our  first  dear  Mary,  angel-eyed, 
Whose  smile  it  was  a  bliss  to  know. 

Something  of  her  whose  lore  imparts 
Such  radiance  to  her  day's  decline, 

We  feel  its  twilight  in  our  hearts 
Bright  as  the  earliest  morning-shine. 

Yet  richer  strains  our  eye  could  trace 
That  made  our  plainer  mould  more 
fair, 

That  curved  the  lip  with  happier  grace, 
That  waved  the  soft  and  silken  hair. 

Dust  unto  dust !  the  lips  are  still 
That  only  spoke  to  cheer  and  bless  ; 

The  folded  hands  lie  white  and  chill 
Unclasped  from  sorrow's  last  caress. 

Leave  him  in  peace  ;  he  will  not  heed 
These  idle  tears  we  vainly  pour, 

Give  back  to  earth  the  fading  weed 
Of  mortal  shape  his  spirit  wore. 

"Shall  I  not  weep  my  heartstrings  torn, 
My  flower  of  love  that  falls  half  blown, 

My  youth  uncrowned,  my  life  forlorn, 
A  thorny  path  to  walk  alone  ? " 

0  Mary  !  one  who  bore  thy  name, 
Whose  Friend  and  Master  was  divine, 

Sat  waiting  silent  till  He  came, 

Bowed  down  in  speechless  grief  like 
thine. 


"  Where  have  ye  laid  him  ? "  "Come," 
they  say, 

Pointing  to  where  the  loved  one  slept ; 
Weeping,  the  sister  led  the  way,  — 

And,  seeing  Mary,  "  Jesus  wept." 

He  weeps  with  thee,  with  all  that  mourn, 
And  He  shall  wipe  thy  streaming  eyes 

Who  knew  all  sorrows,  woman-born,  — . 
Trust  in  his  word  ;  thy  dead  shall  rise  ! 

April  15,  1860. 


MARTHA. 

DIED  JANUARY  7,  1861. 

SEXTON  !  Martha  's  dead  and  gone  ; 

Toll  the  bell !  toll  the  bell ! 
Her  weary  hands  their  labor  cease  ; 
Good  night,   poor  Martha,  —  sleep   in 

peace  ! 
Toll  the  bell ! 

Sexton  !  Martha 's  dead  and  gone  ; 

Toll  the  bell !  toll  the  bell ! 
For  many  a  year  has  Martha  said, 
"I'm  old  and  poor, — would  I  were 

dead  ! " 
Toll  the  bell ! 

Sexton  !  Martha 's  dead  and  gone  ; 

Toll  the  bell !  toll  the  bell  I 
She  '11  bring  no  more,  by  day  or  night, 
Her  basket  full  of  linen  white. 
Toll  the  bell ! 

Sexton  !  Martha  's  dead  and  gone  ; 

Toll  the  bell !  toll  the  bell ! 
'T  is  fitting  she  should  lie  below 
A  pure  white  sheet  of  drifted  snow. 
Toll  the  bell ! 

Sexton  !  Martha 's  dead  and  gone  ; 
Toll  the  bell !  toll  the  bell ! 


MEETING   OF  THE   ALUMNI   OF   HARVARD   COLLEGE. 


147 


Sleep,  Martha,  sleep,  to  wake  in  light, 
Where  all  the  robes  are  stainless  white. 
Toll  the  bell ! 


MEETING  OF  THE  ALUMNI  OF  HAR- 
VARD COLLEGE. 

1857. 

I  THANK  you,  MR.  PRESIDENT,  you  've 

kindly  broke  the  ice  ; 
Virtue  should  always  be  the  first,  —  I  'm 

only  SECOND  VICE  — 
(A  vice  is  something  with  a  screw  that 's 

made  to  hold  its  jaw 
Till  some  old  file  has  played  away  upon 

an  ancient  saw). 

Sweet  brothers  by  the  Mother's  side, 

the  babes  of  days  gone  by, 
All  nurslings  of  her  Juno  breasts  whose 

milk  is  never  dry, 
We  come  again,  like  half-grown  boys, 

and  gather  at  her  beck 
About  her  knees,  and  on  her  lap,  and 

clinging  round  her  neck. 

We  find  her  at  her  stately  door,  and  in 

her  ancient  chair, 
Dressed  in  the  robes  of  red  and  green 

she  always  loved  to  Avear. 
Her  eye  has  all  its  radiant  youth,  her 

cheek  its  morning  flame  ; 
We  drop  our  roses  as  we  go,  hers  flourish 

still  the  same. 

We  have  been  playing  many  an  hour, 

and  far  away  we  've  strayed, 
Some  laughing  in  the  cheerful  sun,  some 

lingering  in  the  shade  ; 
And  some  have  tired,  and  laid  them  down 

where  darker  shadows  fall,  — 
Dear  as  her  loving  voice  may  be,  they 

cannot  hear  its  call. 

What  miles  we  've  travelled  since  we 
shook  the  dew-drops  from  our  shoes 


We  gathered  on  this  classic  green,  so 

famed  for  heavy  dues  ! 
How  many  boys  have  joined  the  game, 

how  many  slipped  away, 
Since  we  've  been  running  up  and  down, 

and  having  out  our  play  ! 

One  boy  at  work  with  book  and  brief, 
and  one  with  gown  and  band, 

One  sailing  vessels  on  the  pool,  one  dig- 
ging in  the  sand, 

One  flying  paper  kites  on  change,  one 
planting  little  pills,  — 

The  seeds  of  certain  annual  flowers  well 
known  as  little  bills. 

What  maidens  met  us  on  our  way,  and 

clasped  us  hand  in  hand  ! 
What  cherubs, — not  the  legless  kind, 

that  fly,  but  never  stand  ! 
How  many  a  youthful  head  we  've  seen 

put  on  its  silver  crown  ! 
What  sudden   changes  back   again-  to 

youth's  empurpled  brown  ! 

But  fairer  sights  have  met  our  eyes,  and 

broader  lights  have  shone, 
Since  others  lit  their  midnight  lamps 

where  once  we  trimmed  our  own  ; 
A  thousand,  trains  that  flap  the  sky  with 

flags  of  rushing  fire, 
And,  throbbing  in  the  Thunderer's  hand, 

Thought's  million-chorded  lyre. 

"Ve  've  seen  the  sparks  of  Empire  fly 

beyond  the  mountain  bars, 
Till,  glittering  o'er  the  Western  wave, 

they  joined  the  setting  stars ; 
And    ocean    trodden    into  paths   that 

trampling  giants  ford, 
To  find  the  planet's  vertebras  and  sink 

its  spinal  cord. 

We  've  tried  reform,  — and  chloroform, 
—  and  both  have  turned  our  brain  ; 


148 


SONGS  IN   MANY  KEYS. 


When  France  called  up  the  photograph, 
we  roused  the  foe  to  pain  ; 

Just  so  those  earlier  sages  shared  the 
chaplet  of  renown,  — 

Hers  sent  a  bladder  to  the  clouds,  ours 
brought  their  lightning  down. 

We  've  seen  the  little  tricks  of  life,  its 

varnish  and  veneer, 
Its  stucco-fronts  of  character  flake  off 

and  disappear, 
We  've  learned  that  oft  the  brownest 

hands  will  heap  the  biggest  pile, 
And  met  with  many  a  "perfect  brick" 

beneath  a  rimless  "  tile." 

What  dreams  we  've  had  of  deathless 

name,  as  scholars,  statesmen,  bards, 
While  Fame,  the  lady  with  the  trump, 

held  up  her  picture  cards  ! 
Till,  having  nearly  played  our  game,  she 

gayly  whispered,  "Ah! 
I  said  you  should  be  something  grand,  — 

you  '11  soon  be  grandpapa. " 

Well,  well,  the  old  have  had  their  day, 

the  young  must  take  their  turn  ; 
There  's  something  always  to  forget,  and 

something  still  to  learn  ; 
But  how  to  tell  what 's  old  or  young, 

the  tap-root  from  the  sprigs, 
Since  Florida    revealed   her  fount    to 

Ponce  de  Leon  Twiggs  ? 

The  wisest  was  a  Freshman  once,  just 

freed  from  bar  and  bolt, 
As  noisy  as  a  kettle-drum,  as  leggy  as  a 

colt; 
Don't  be  too  savage  with  the  boys,  — 

the  Primer  does  not  say 
The  kitten  ought  to  go  to  church  because 

the  cat  doth  prey. 

The  law  of  merit  and  of  age  is  not  the 
rule  of  three ; 


Non  constat  that  A.  M.  must  prove  as 

busy  as  A.  B. 
When  Wise  the  father  tracked  the  son, 

ballooning  through  the  skies, 
He  taught  a  lesson  to  the  old,  —  go  thou 

and  do  like  Wise  ! 

Now  then,  old  boys,  and  reverend  youth, 

of  high  of  low  degree, 
Remember  how  we  only  get  one  annual 

out  of  three, 
And  such  as  dare  to  simmer  down  three 

dinners  into  one 
Must  cut  their  salads  mighty  short,  and 

pepper  well  with  fun. 

I  've  passed  my  zenith  long  ago,  it 's  time 

for  me  to  set ; 
A  dozen  planets  wait  to  shine,  and  I  am 

lingering  yet, 
As  sometimes  in  the  blaze  of  day  a  milk- 

and-watery  moon 
Stains  with  its  dim  and  fading  ray  the 

lustrous  blue  of  noon. 

Farewell !  yet  let  one  echo  rise  to  shake 

our  ancient  hall ; 
God  save  the  Queen,  —  whose  throne  is 

here,  —  the  Mother  of  us  all ! 
Till  dawns  the  great  commencement-day 

on  every  shore  and  sea, 
And   "  Expectantur "   all  mankind,  to 

take  their  last  Degree  ! 


THE  PARTING  SONG. 

FESTIVAL   OF  THE  ALUMNI,    1857. 

THE  noon  of  summer  sheds  its  ray 
On  Harvard's  holy  ground  ; 

The  Matron  calls,  the  sons  obey, 
And  gather  smiling  round. 

CHORUS. 

Then  old  and  young  together  stand, 
The  sunshine  and  the  snow. 


FOR  THE   SANITARY  ASSOCIATION. 


149 


As  heart  to  heart,  and  hand  in  hand, 
We  sing  before  we  go  ! 

Her  hundred  opening  doors  have  swung  ; 

Through  every  storied  hall 
The  pealing  echoes  loud  have  rung, 

"Thrice  welcome  one  and  all !  " 
Then  old  and  young,  etc. 

"We  floated  through  her  peaceful  bay, 

To  sail  life's  stormy  seas  ; 
But  left  our  anchor  where  it  lay 

Beneath  her  green  old  trees. 
Then  old  and  young,  etc. 

As  now  we  lift  its  lengthening  chain, 

That  held  us  fast  of  old, 
The  rusted  rings  grow  bright  again,  — 

Their  iron  turns  to  gold. 
Then  old  and  young,  etc. 

Though  scattered  ere  the  setting  sun, 
As  leaves  when  wild  winds  blow, 

Our  home  is  here,  are  hearts  are  one, 
Till  Charles  forgets  to  flow. 
Then  old  and  young,  etc. 


FOR  THE  MEETING  OF  THE  NATIONAL 
SANITARY  ASSOCIATION. 

1860. 

WHAT  makes  the  Healing  Art  divine  ? 

The  bitter  drug  we  buy  and  sell, 
The  brands  that  scorch,  the  blades  that 

shine, 

The  scars  we  leave,  the  "  cures  "  we 
tell? 

Are  these  thy  glories,  holiest  Art,  — 
The  trophies  that  adorn  thee  best,  — 

Or  but  thy  triumph's  meanest  part,  — 
Where  mortal  weakness  stands  con- 
fessed ? 


We  take  the  arms  that  Heaven  supplies 
For  Life's  long  battle  with  Disease, 

Taught  by  our  various  need  to  prize 
Our  frailest  weapons,  even  these. 

But  ah  !  when  Sciencedrops  her  shield — 
Its  peaceful  shelter  proved  in  vain  — 

And  bares  her  snow-white  arm  to  wield 
The  sad,  stern  ministry  of  pain ; 

When  shuddering  o'er  the  fount  of  life, 
She  folds  her  heaven-anointed  wings, 

To  lift  unmoved  the  glittering  knife 
That  searches  all  its  crimson  springs  ; 

When,  faithful  to  her  ancient  lore, 
She  thrusts  aside  her  fragrant  balm 

For  blistering  juice,  or  cankering  ore, 
And  tames  them   till  they  cure  or 
calm  ; 

When  in  her  gracious  hand  are  seen 
The  dregs  and  scum  of  earth  and  seas, 

Her  kindness  counting  all  things  clean 
That  lend  the  sighing  sufferer  ease  ; 

Though  on  the  field  that  Death  has  won, 
She  save  some  stragglers  in  retreat; — 

These  single  acts  of  mercy  done 
Are  but  confessions  of  defeat. 

What  though  our  tempered  poisons  save 
Some  wrecks  of  life  from  aches  and 

ails ; 

Those  grand  specifics  Nature  gave 
Were  never    poised  by    weights    or 
scales  ! 

God  lent  his  creatures  light  and  air, 
And  waters  open  to  the  skies  ; 

Man  locks  him  in  a  stifling  lair, 
And  wonders  why  his  brother  dies  ! 

In  vain  our  pitying  tears  are  shed, 
In  vain  we  rear  the  sheltering  pile 


150 


SONGS   IN   MANY   KEYS. 


Where  Art  weeds  out  from  bed  to  bed 
The  plagues  we  planted  by  the  mile  ! 

Be  that  the  glory  of  the  past ; 

With  these  our  sacred  toils  begin  : 
So  flies  in  tatters  from  its  mast 

The  yellow  flag  of  sloth  and  sin, 

And  lo  !  the  starry  folds  reveal 

The  blazoned  truth  we  hold  so  dear  : 

To  guard  is  better  than  to  heal,  — 
The  shield  is  nobler  than  the  spear  ! 


FOR   THE  BURNS   CENTENNIAL  CELE- 
BRATION. 

JANUARY   25,  1859. 

His  birthday.  —  Nay,  we  need  not  speak 
The  name  each  heart  is  beating,  — 

Each  glistening  eye  and  flushing  cheek 
In  light  and  flame  repeating  ! 

We  come  in  one  tumultuous  tide,  — 
One  surge  of  wild  emotion,  — 

As  crowding  through  the  Frith  of  Clyde 
Rolls  in  the  Western  Ocean  ; 

As  when  yon  cloudless,  quartered  moon 
Hangs  o'er  each  storied  river, 

The  swelling  breasts  of  Ayr  and  Doon 
With  sea-green  wavelets  quiver. 

The  century  shrivels  like  a  scroll,  — 
The  past  becomes  the  present,  — 

And  face  to  face,  and  soul  to  soul, 
We  greet  the  monarch-peasant. 

While  Shenstone  strained  in  feeble  flights 
With  Corydon  and  Phillis,  — 

While  Wolfe  was  climbing  Abraham's 

heights 
To  snatch  the  Bourbon  lilies,  — 

Who  heard  the  wailing  infant's  cry, 
The  babe  beneath  the  sheeling, 


Whose  song  to-night  in  every  sky 
Will  shake  earth's  starry  ceiling,  — 

Whose  passion-breathing  voice  ascends 
And  floats  like  incense  o'er  us, 

Whose  ringing  lay  of  friendship  blends 
With  labor's  anvil  chorus  ? 

We  love  him,  not  for  sweetest  song, 
Though  never  tone  so  tender  ; 

We  love  him,  even  in  his  wrong,  — 
His  wasteful  self-surrender. 

We  praise  him,  not  for  gifts  divine, — 
His  Muse  was  born  of  woman,  — 

His  manhood  breathes  in  every  line,  — 
Was  ever  heart  more  human  ? 

We  love  him,  praise  him,  just  for  this  : 

In  every  form  and  feature, 
Through  wealth  and  want,  through  woe 
and  bliss, 

He  saw  his  fellow-creature  ! 

No  soul  could  sink  beneath  his  love,  — 

Not  even  angel  blasted  ; 
No  mortal  power  could  soar  above 

The  pride  that  all  outlasted  ! 

Ay  !  Heaven  had  set  one  living  man 
Beyond  the  pedant's  tether,  — 

His  virtues,  frailties,  HE  may  scan, 
Who  weighs  them  all  together  ! 

I  fling  my  pebble  on  the  cairn 
Of  him,  though  dead,  undying  ; 

Sweet  Nature's  nursling,  bonniest  bairn 
Beneath  her  daisies  lying. 

The  waning  suns,  the  wasting  globe, 
Shall  spare  the  minstrel's  story, — 

The  centuries  weave  his  purple  robe, 
The  mountain-mist  of  glory  ! 


BOSTON   COMMON. — THE   OLD   MAN    OF   THE   SEA. 


151 


BOSTON  COMMON.-THREE  PICTURES. 

FOR  THE  FAIR  IN  AID  OF  THE  FUND 
TO  PROCURE  BALL'S  STATUE  OF  WASH- 
INGTON. 

1630. 

ALL  overgrown  with  bush  and  fern, 

And   straggling   clumps    of   tangled 

trees, 

With  trunks  that  lean  and  boughs  that 
turn, 

Bent    eastward    by    the    mastering 

breeze,  — 
With  spongy  bogs  that  drip  and  fill 

A  yellow  pond  with  muddy  rain, 
Beneath  the  shaggy  southern  hill 

Lies  wet  and  low  the  Shawmut  plain. 
And  hark  !  the  trodden  branches  crack  ; 

A  crow  flaps  off  with  startled  scream  ; 
A  straying  woodchuck  canters  back  ; 

A  bittern  rises  from  the  stream  ; 
Leaps  from  his  lair  a  frightened  deer  ; 

An  otter  plunges  in  the  pool ;  — 
Here  comes  old  Shawmut's  pioneer, 

The  parson  on  his  brindled  bull ! 

1774. 

THE  streets  are  thronged  with  trampling 
feet, 

The  northern  hill  is  ridged  with  graves, 
But  night  and  morn  the  drum  is  beat 

To  frighten  down  the  "rebel  knaves." 
The  stones  of  King  Street  still  are  red, 

And  yet  the  bloody  red-coats  come  : 
I  hear  their  pacing  sentry's  tread, 

The  click  of  steel,  the  tap  of  drum, 
And  over  all  the  open  green, 

Where  grazed  of  late  the  harmless 

kine, 
The  cannon's  deepening  ruts  are  seen, 

The  war-horse  stamps,  the  bayonets 

shine. 
The  clouds  are  dark  with  crimson  rain 

Above  the  murderous  hirelings'  den, 


And  soon  their  whistling  showers  shaL 

stain 
The  pipe-clayed  belts  of  Gage's  men. 


AROUND  the  green,  in  morning  light, 

The  spired  and  palaced  summits  blaze, 
And,  sunlike,  from  her  Beacon-height 

The  dome-crowned  city  spreads  her 

rays; 
They  span  the  waves,  they  belt  the  plains, 

They  skirt  the  roads  with  bands  of 

white, 
Till  with  a  flash  of  gilded  panes 

Yon  farthest  hillside  bounds  the  sight. 
Peace,  Freedom,  Wealth !  no  fairer  view, 

Though  with  the  wild-bird's  restless 

wings 
We  sailed  beneath  the  noontide's  blue 

Or   chased   the   moonlight's    endless 

rings  ! 
Here,  fitly  raised  by  grateful  hands 

His  holiest  memory  to  recall, 
The  Hero's,  Patriot's  image  stands  ; 

He  led  our  sires  who  won  them  all ! 

November  14,  1859. 

THE  OLD  MAN   OF  THE  SEA. 

A   NIGHTMARE   DREAM   BY  DAYLIGHT. 

Do  you  know  the  Old  Man  of  the  Sea, 

of  the  Sea  ? 
Have  you  met  with  that  dreadful  old 

man  ? 
If  you  have  n't  been  caught,  you  will  be, 

you  will  be ; 
For  catch  you  he  must  and  he  can. 

He  does  n't  hold  on  by  your  throat,  by 

your  throat, 

As  of  old  in  the  terrible  tale  ; 
But  he  grapples  you  tight  by  the  coat, 

by  the  coat, 
Till  its  buttons  and  button-holes  fail. 


SONGS  IN  MANY  KEYS. 


There  'a  the  charm  of  a  snake  in  his  eye, 

in  his  eye, 

And  a  polypus-grip  in  his  hands  ; 
You  cannot  go  back,  nor  get  by,  nor  get 

by, 

If  you  look  at  the  spot  where  he 
stands. 

0,   you  're  grabbed  !     See  his  claw  on 

your  sleeve,  on  your  sleeve  ! 
It  is  Sinbad's  Old  Man  of  the  Sea  ! 
You  're  a  Christian,  no  doubt  you  be- 
lieve, you  believe  : 
You  're  a  martyr,  whatever  you  be  ! 

—  Is  the  breakfast-hour  past  ?     They 

must  wait,  they  must  wait, 

"While  the  coffee  boils  sullenly  down, 

While  the  Johnny-cake  burns  on  the 

grate,  on  the  grate, 
And    the    toast   is   done   frightfully 

brown. 

—  Yes,  your  dinner  will  keep  ;  let  it 

cool,  let  it  cool, 

And  Madam  may  worry  and  fret, 
And  children  half-starved  go  to  school, 

go  to  school ; 
He  can't  think  of  sparing  you  yet. 

—  Hark  !  the  bell  for  the  train  !  "  Come 

along  !  Come  along  ! 
For  there  isn't  a  second  to  lose." 
"ALLABOARD!"  (Heholdson.)  "Fsht! 

ding-dong !  Fsht !  ding-dong ! " — 
You  can  follow  on  foot,  if  you  choose. 

—  There  's  a  maid  with  a  cheek  like  a 

peach,  like  a  peach, 
That    is    waiting    for    you    in    the 

church  ;  — 
But  he  clings  to  your  side  like  a  leech, 

like  a  leech, 
And  you  leave  your  lost  bride  in  the 

lurch. 


—  There  's  a   babe    in  a  fit,  —  hurry 

quick  !  hurry  quick  ! 
To  the  doctor's  as  fast  as  you  can  ! 
The  baby  is  off,  while  you  stick,  while 

you  stick, 
In  the  grip  of  the  dreadful  Old  Man  ! 

—  I  have  looked  on  the  face  of  the  Bore, 

of  the  Bore ; 

The  voice  of  the  Simple  I  know  ; 
I  have  welcomed  the  Flat  at  my  door,  at 

my  door ; 
I  have  sat  by  the  side  of  the  Slow  ; 

I  have  walked  like  a  lamb  by  the  friend, 

by  the  friend, 

That  stuck  to  my  skirts  like  a  bur  ; 
I  have  borne  the  stale  talk  without  end, 

without  end, 
Of  the  sitter  whom  nothing  could  stir : 

But  my  hamstrings  grow  loose,  and  I 

shake,  and  I  shake, 
At  the  sight  of  the  dreadful  Old  Man ; 
Yea,  I  quiver  and  quake,   and  I  take, 

and  I  take, 
To  my  legs  with  what  vigor  I  can  ! 

O  the  dreadful  Old  Man  of  the  Sea,  of 

the  Sea ! 
He  's  come  back  like  the  Wandering 

Jew  ! 
He  has  had  his  cold  claw  upon  me,  upon 

me,  — 
And  be  sure  that  he  '11  have  it  on  you  ! 

INTERNATIONAL  ODE. 

OUR  FATHERS'  LAND.1 

GOD  bless  our  Fathers'  Land  ! 
Keep  her  in  heart  and  hand 
One  with  our  own  ! 

1  Sung  in  unison  by  twelve  hundred  chil- 
dren of  the  public  schools,  at  the  visit  of  the 
Prince  of  Wales  to  Boston,  October  18,  I860. 
Air,  "  God  save  the  Queen." 


VIVE   LA  FRANCE.  —  BROTHER  JONATHAN'S  LAMENT.        153 


From  all  her  foes  defend, 
Be  her  brave  People's  Friend, 
On  all  her  realms  descend, 
Protect  her  Throne  ! 

Father,  with  loving  care 

Guard  Thou  her  kingdom's  Heir, 

Guide  all  his  ways  : 
Thine  arm  his  shelter  be, 
From  him  by  land  and  sea 
Bid  storm  and  danger  flee, 

Prolong  his  days  ! 

Lord,  let  War's  tempest  cease, 
Fold  the  whole  Earth  in  peace 

Under  thy  wings  ! 
Make  all  Thy  nations  one, 
All  hearts  beneath  the  sun, 
Till  Thou  shalt  reign  alone, 

Great  King  of  kings  ! 

VIVE  LA  FRANCE! 

A  SENTIMENT  OFFERED  AT  THE  DINNER 
TO  H.  I.  H.  THE  PRINCE  NAPOLEON,  AT 
THE  REVERE  HOUSE,  SEPT.  25,  1861. 

THE  land  of  sunshine  and  of  song  ! 

Her  name  your  hearts  divine  ; 
To  her  the  banquet's  vows  belong 

Whose     breasts     have     poured     its 

wine  ; 
Our  trusty  friend,  our  true  ally 

Through  varied  change  and  chance  : 
So,  fill  your  flashing  goblets  high,  — 

I  give  you,  VIVE  LA  FRANCE  ! 

Above  our  hosts  in  triple  folds 

The  selfsame  colors  spread, 
Where  Valor's  faithful  arm  upholds 

The  blue,  the  white,  the  red  ; 
Alike  each  nation's  glittering  crest 

Reflects  the  morning's  glance,  — 
Twin  eagles,  soaring  east  and  west : 

Once  more,  then,  VIVE  LA  FRANCE  ! 


Sister  in  trial !  who  shall  count 

Thy  generous  friendship's  claim, 
Whose  blood  ran  mingling  in  the  fount 

That  gave  our  land  its  name, 
Till  Yorktown  saw  in  blended  line 

Our  conquering  arms  advance, 
And  victory's  double  garlands  twine 

Our  banners  ?    VIVE  LA  FRANCE  ! 

0  land  of  heroes  !  in  our  need 

One  gift  from  Heaven  we  crave 
To  stanch   these   wounds   that  vainly 
bleed, — 

The  wise  to  lead  the  brave ! 
Call  back  one  Captain  of  thy  past 

From  glory's  marble  trance, 
Whose  name  shall  be  a  bugle-blast 

To  rouse  us  !    VIVE  LA  FRANCE  ! 

Pluck  Conde's  baton  from  the  trench, 

Wake  up  stout  Charles  Martel, 
Or  find  some  woman's  hand  to  clench 

The  sword  of  La  Pucelle ! 
Give  us  one  hour  of  old  Turenne,  — 

One  lift  of  Bayard's  lance,  — 
Nay,  call  Marengo's  Chief  again 

To  lead  us  !    VIVE  LA  FRANCE  ! 

Ah,  hush !  our  welcome  Guest  shall  hear 

But  sounds  of  peace  and  joy ; 
No  angry  echo  vex  thine  ear, 

Fair  Daughter  of  Savoy ! 
Once  more !  the  land  of  arms  and  arts, 

Of  glory,  grace,  romance; 
Her  love  lies  warm  in  all  our  hearts : 

God  bless  her !    VIVE  LA  FRANCE  1 


BROTHER  JONATHAN'S    LAMENT  FOR 
SISTER  CAROLINE. 

SHE  has  gone,  — she  has  left  us  in  pas- 
sion and  pride,  — 

Our  stormy-browed  sister,  so  long  at  our 
side  J 


154 


SONGS  IN   MANY  KEYS. 


She  has  torn  her  own  star  from  our  fir- 
mament's glow, 

And  turned  on  her  brother  the  face  of  a 
foe! 


0  Caroline,  Caroline,  child  of  the  sun, 

We  can  never  forget  that  our  hearts 
have  been  one,  — 

Our  foreheads  both  sprinkled  in  Liberty's 
name, 

From  the  fountain  of  blood  with  the  fin- 
ger of  flame  ! 

You  were  always  too  ready  to  fire  at  a 
touch  ; 

But  we  said,  "  She  is  hasty,  —  she  does 
not  mean  much." 

We  have  scowled,  when  you  uttered 
some  turbulent  threat ; 

But  Friendship  still  whispered,  "For- 
give and  forget ! " 

Has  our  love  all  died  out  ?    Have  its 

altars  grown  cold  ? 
Has  the  curse  come  at  last  which  the 

fathers  foretold? 
Then  Nature  must  teach  us  the  strength 

of  the  chain 
That  her  petulant  children  would  sever 

in  vain. 


They  may  fight  till  the  buzzards  are 

gorged  with  their  spoil, 
Till  the  harvest  grows  black  as  it  rots 

in  the  soil, 
Till  the  wolves    and    the   catamounts 

troop  from  their  caves, 
And  the  shark  tracks  the  pirate,   the 

lord  of  the  waves  : 


In  vain  is  the  strife  !    When  its  fury  is 

past, 
Their  fortunes  must  flow  in  one  channel 

at  last, 


As  the  torrents  that  rush  from  the 
mountains  of  snow 

Roll  mingled  in  peace  through  the  val- 
leys below. 

Our  Union  is  river,   lake,  ocean,   and 

sky  : 
Man  breaks  not  the  medal,  when  God 

cuts  the  die ! 
Though  darkened  with  sulphur,  though 

cloven  with  steel, 
The  blue  arch  will  brighten,  the  waters 

will  heal  ! 

0  Caroline,  Caroline,  child  of  the  sun, 
There  are  battles  with  Fate  that  can 

never  be  won  ! 
The  star-flowering  banner  must  never 

be  furled, 
For  its  blossoms  of  light  are  the  hope  of 

the  world  ! 

Go,  then,  our  rash  sister  !  afar  and  aloof, 
Run  wild  in  the  sunshine  away  from  our 

roof; 
But  when  your  heart  aches  and  your  feet 

have  grown  sore, 
Remember  the  pathway  that  leads  to  our 

door ! 

March  25,  1861. 


UNDER  THE  WASHINGTON  ELM,  CAM- 
BRIDGE. 

April  27,  1861. 

EIGHTY  years  have  passed,  and  more, 
Since  under  the  brave  old  tree 
Our  fathers  gathered  in  arms,  and  swore 
They  would  follow  the  sign  their  ban- 
ners bore, 
And  fight  till  the  land  was  free. 

Half  of  their  work  was  done, 
Half  is  left  to  do,  — 


FREEDOM,  OUR  QUEEN.  —  ARMY  HYMN. 


155 


Cambridge,  and  Concord,  and  Lexing- 
ton ! 

When  the  battle  is  fought  and  won, 
What  shall  be  told  of  you  ? 

Hark  ! — 'tis  the  south-wind  moans, — 
Who  are  the  martyrs  down  ? 
Ah,  the  marrow  was  true  in  your  chil- 
dren's bones 
That  sprinkled  with  blood  the  cursed 

stones 
Of  the  murder-haunted  town  ! 

What  if  the  storm-clouds  blow  ? 

What  if  the  green  leaves  fall  ? 
Better  the  crashing  tempest's  throe 
Than  the  army  of  worms  that  gnawed 
below ; 

Trample  them  one  and  all ! 

Then,  when  the  battle  is  won, 
And  the  land  from  traitors  free, 
Our  children  shall  tell  of  the  strife  begun 
When  Liberty's  second  April  sun 
Was  bright  on  our  brave  old  tree  ! 


FREEDOM,  OUR  QUEEN. 

LAND  where  the  banners  wave  last  in 

the  sun, 

31azoned  with  star-clusters,  many  in  one, 
Floating  o'er  prairie  and  mountain  and 

sea ; 
Hark !  't  is  the  voice  of  thy  children  to 

thee! 


Here  at  thine  altar  our  vows  we  re- 


Still    in  thy   cause    to    be   loyal    and 

true,  — 
True  to  thy  flag  on  the  field  and  the 

wave, 
Living  to  honor  it,  dying  to  save  ! 


Mother  of  heroes  !  if  perfidy's  blight 
Fall  on  a  star  in  thy  garland  of  light, 
Sound  but  one  bugle-blast!   Lo  !  at  the 

sign 
Armies  all  panoplied  wheel  into  line  I 

Hope  of  the  world  !  thou  hast  broken  its 

chains,  — 
Wear  thy  bright  arms  while  a  tyrant 

remains, 
Stand  for  the  right  till  the  nations  shall 

own 
Freedom  their  sovereign,  with  Law  for 

her  throne ! 

Freedom  !  sweet  Freedom !  our  voices 
resound, 

Queen  by  God's  blessing,  unsceptred,  un- 
crowned ! 

Freedom,  sweet  Freedom,  our  pulses 
repeat, 

Warm  with  her  life-blood,  as  long  as 
they  beat ! 

Fold  the  broad  banner-stripes  over  her 

breast,  — 
Crown  her  with  star-jewels  Queen  of  the 

West! 
Earth   for   her  heritage,  God   for  her 

friend, 
She  shall  reign  over  iu»,  world  without 

end ! 


ARMY  HYMN. 

"Old  Hundred." 


0  LORD  of  Hosts  !  Almighty  King ! 
Behold  the  sacrifice  we  bring  ! 
To  every  arm  Thy  strength  impart, 
Thy  spirit  shed  through  every  heart  ! 

Wake  in  our  breasts  the  living  fires, 
The  holy  faith  that  warmed  our  sires  ; 
Thy  hand  hath  made  our  Nation  free  ; 
To  die  for  her  is  serving  Thee. 


156 


SONGS  IN   MANY  KEYS. 


Be  Thou  a  pillared  flame  to  show 
The  midnight  snare,  the  silent  foe  ; 
And  when  the  battle  thunders  loud, 
Still  guide  us  in  its  moving  cloud. 

God  of  all  Nations  !  Sovereign  Lord ! 
In  Thy  dread  name  we  draw  the  sword, 
We  lift  the  starry  flag  on  high 
That  fills  with  light  our  stormy  sky. 

From  treason's  rent,  from  murder's  stain, 
Guard  Thou  its  folds  till  Peace  shall 

reign,  — 

Till  fort  and  field,  till  shore  and  sea, 
Join  our  loud  anthem,  PEAISE  TO  THEE! 


PARTING  HYMN. 

"Dundee." 

FATHER  of  Mercies,  Heavenly  Friend, 
We  seek  Thy  gracious  throne  ; 

To  Thee  our  faltering  prayers  ascend, 
Our  fainting  hearts  are  known  ! 

From  blasts  that  chill,  from  suns  that 
smite, 

From  every  plague  that  harms  ; 
In  camp  and  march,  in  siege  and  fight, 

Protect  our  men-at-arms  ! 

Though  from  our  darkened  lives  they 
take 

What  makes  our  life  most  dear, 
We  yield  them  for  their  country's  sake 

With  no  relenting  tear. 

Our  blood  their  flowing  veins  will  shed, 
Their  wounds  our  breasts  will  share  ; 

0,  save  us  from  the  woes  we  dread, 
Or  grant  us  strength  to  bear  ! 

Let  each  unhallowed  cause  that  brings 

The  stern  destroyer  cease, 
Thy  flaming  angel  fold  his  wings, 

And  seraphs  whisper  Peace  ! 


Thine  are  the  sceptre  and  the  sword, 
Stretch  forth  Thy  mighty  hand,  — 

Reign  Thou  our  kingless  nation's  Lord, 
Rule  Thou  our  throneless  land  ! 


THE  FLOWER  OF  LIBERTY. 

WHAT  flower  is  this  that  greets  the  morn, 
Its  hues  from  Heaven  so  freshly  born  ? 
With  burning  star  and  flaming  band 
It  kindles  all  the  sunset  land  : 
0  tell  us  what  its  name  may  be,  — 
Is  this  the  Flower  of  Liberty  ? 
It  is  the  banner  of  the  free, 
The  starry  Flower  of  Liberty  ! 

In  savage  Nature's  far  abode 
Its  tender  seed  our  fathers  sowed ; 
The  storm- winds  rocked  its  swelling  bud, 
Its  opening  leaves  were  streaked  with 

blood, 

Till  lo  !  earth's  tyrants  shook  to  see 
The  full-blown  Flower  of  Liberty  ! 
Then  hail  the  banner  of  the  free, 
The  starry  Flower  of  Liberty  ! 

Behold  its  streaming  rays  unite, 
One  mingling  flood  of  braided  light,  — 
The  red  that  fires  the  Southern  rose, 
With  spotless  white  from  Northern  snows, 
And,  spangled  o'er  its  azure,  see 
The  sister  Stars  of  Liberty  ! 

Then  hail  the  banner  of  the  free, 
The  starry  Flower  of  Liberty  ! 

The  blades  of  heroes  fence  it  round, 
Where'er  it  springs  is  holy  ground  ; 
From  tower  and  dome  its  glories  spread ; 
It  waves  where  lonely  sentries  tread ; 
It  makes  the  land  as  ocean  free, 
And  plants  an  empire  on  the  sea  ! 
Then  hail  the  banner  of  the  free, 
The  starry  Flower  of  Liberty  ! 

Thy  sacred  leaves,  fair  Freedom's  flower, 
Shall  ever  float  on  dome  and  tower; 


THE   SWEET  LITTLE  MAN. 


157 


To  all  their  heavenly  colors  true, 
In  blackening  frost  or  crimson  dew,  — 
And  God  love  us  as  we  love  thee, 
Thrice  holy  Flower  of  Liberty ! 
Then  hail  the  banner  of  the  free, 
The  starry  FLOWER  OF  LIBERTY  ! 


THE  SWEET  LITTLE  MAN. 

DEDICATED     TO     THE    STAY-AT-HOME 
RANGERS. 

Now,  while  our  soldiers  are  fighting  our 

battles, 

Each  at  his  post  to  do  all  that  he  can, 
Down  among  rebels    and    contraband 

chattels, 

What  are  you  doing,  my  sweet  little 
man? 

All  the  brave  boys  under  canvas  are 

sleeping, 
All  of  them  pressing  to  march  with 

the  van, 

Far  from  the  home  where  their  sweet- 
hearts are  weeping ; 
What  are  you  waiting  for,  sweet  little 
man  ? 

You  with    the    terrible  warlike  mus- 
taches, 

Fit  for  a  colonel  or  chief  of  a  clan, 
You  with  the  waist  made  for  sword-belts 

and  sashes, 

Where  are  your  shoulder-straps,  sweet 
little  man  ? 

Bring  him  the  buttonless  garment  of 

woman  ! 

Cover  his  face  lest  it  freckle  and  tan  ; 
Muster  the  Apron-string  Guards  on  the 

Common, 

That  is  the  corps  for  the  sweet  little 
man  ! 


Give  him  for  escort  a  file  of  young  misses, 
Each  of  them  armed  with  a  deadly 

rattan  ; 
They  shall  defend  him  from  laughter 

and  hisses, 

Aimed  by  low  boys  at  the  sweet  little 
man. 

All  the  fair  maidens  about  him  shall 

cluster, 
Pluck  the  white  feathers  from  bonnet 

and  fan, 
Make  him  a  plume  like  a  turkey-wing 

duster,  — 

That  is  the  crest  for  the  sweet  little 
man ! 

0,  but  the  Apron-string  Guards  are  the 

fellows  ! 
Drilling  each  day  since  our  troubles 

began, — 
"  Handle      your      walking  -  sticks  !  " 

"Shoulder  umbrellas!" 
That  is  the  style  for  the  sweet  little 
man. 

Have  we  a  nation  to  save  ?    In  the  first 

place 
Saving    ourselves    is    the    sensible 

plan, — 
Surely  the  spot  where  there 's  shooting 's 

the  worst  place 
Where  I  can  stand,  says  the  sweet  little 

man. 

Catch  me  confiding   my  person  with 

strangers  ! 

Think  how  the  cowardly  Bull-Run- 
ners ran  ! 
In  the   brigade    of   the    Stay-at-home 

Rangers 

Marches  my  corps,   says  the  sweet 
little  man. 

Such  was  the  stuff  of  the  Malakoff- 
takers, 


158 


SONGS   IN   MANY  KEYS. 


Such  were   the  soldiers  that  scaled 

the  Redan  ; 
Truculent  housemaids  and  bloodthirsty 

Quakers, 
Brave   not  the  wrath  of  the  sweet 

little  man  ! 

Yield   him  the  sidewalk,   ye    nursery 

maidens  ! 
Sauve  qui  peutf  Bridget,  and  right 

about !  Ann  ;  — 

Fierce  as  a  shark  in  a  school  of  men- 
hadens, 

See  him  advancing,  the  sweet  little 
man  ! 

When  the  red  flails  of  the  battle-field's 

threshers 
Beat  out  the  continent's  wheat  from 

its  bran, 
While   the  wind    scatters    the    chaffy 

seceshers, 

What  will  become  of  our  sweet  little 
man  ? 

When  the  brown   soldiers  come  back 

from  the  borders, 
How  will  he  look  while  his  features 

they  scan  ? 
How  will  he  feel  when  he  gets  marching 

orders, 

Signed  by  his  lady  love  ?  sweet  little 
man  ! 

Fear  not  for  him,  though  the  rebels  ex- 
pect him,  — 

Life  is  too  precious  to  shorten  its  span  ; 
Woman  her  broomstick  shall  raise  Jo 

protect  him, 

Will  she  not  fight  for  the  sweet  little 
man ! 

Now  then,  nine  cheers  for  the  Stay-at- 
home  Ranger ! 

Blow  the  great  fish-horn  and  beat  the 
big  pan  ! 


First  in  the  field  that  is  farthest  from 

danger, 

Take  your  white-feather  plume,  sweet 
little  man  ! 


UNION  AND  LIBERTY. 

FLAG  of  the  heroes  who  left  us  their 

glory, 

Borne  through  their  battle-fields'  thun- 
der and  flame, 

Blazoned  in  song  and  illumined  in  story, 
Wave  o'er  us  all  who  inherit  their 

fame  ! 

Up  with  our  banner  bright, 
Sprinkled  with  starry  light, 
Spread  its  fair  emblems  from  moun- 
tain to  shore, 

While  through  the  sounding  sky 
Loud  rings  the  Nation's  cry,  — 
UNION  AND  LIBERTY  !  ONE  EVER- 
MORE! 

Light  of  our  firmament,  guide  of  our 

Nation, 
Pride  of  her  children,  and  honored 

afar, 

Let  the  wide  beams  of  thy  full  constel- 
lation 
Scatter  each  cloud  that  would  darken 

a  star ! 
Up  with  our  banner  bright,  etc. 

Empire  unsceptred  !  what  foe  shall  assail 

thee, 
Bearing    the    standard    of   Liberty's 

van  ? 
Think  not  the  God  of  thy  fathers  shall 

fail  thee, 
Striving  with  men  for  the  birthright 

of  man  J 
Up  with  our  banner  bright,  etc. 

Yet    if,    by    madness    and    treachery 
blighted, 


UNION  AND   LIBERTY. 


159 


Dawns  the  dark  hour  when  the  sword 

thou  must  draw, 
Then  with   the   arms  of  thy  millions 

united, 
Smite  the  bold  traitors  to  Freedom 

and  Law ! 
Up  with  our  banner  bright,  etc. 

Lord  of  the  Universe  !  shield  us  and 

guide  us, 

Trusting  thee  always,  through  shadow 
and  sun ! 


Thou  hast  united  us,  who  shall  divide 

us? 
Keep  us,  0  keep  us  the  MANY  IN 

ONE! 

Up  with  our  banner  bright, 
Sprinkled  with  starry  light, 
Spread  its  fair  emblems  from  moun- 
tain to  shore, 

While  through  the  sounding  sky 
Loud  rings  the  Nation's  cry,  — 
UNION  AND  LIBEBTY  !  ONE  EVER- 
MORE! 


POEMS 


FROM  THE 


AUTOCRAT  OF  THE  BREAKFAST  TABLE. 


1857-1858. 


THE  CHAMBERED  NAUTILUS. 

THIS  is  the  ship  of  pearl,  which,  poets 

feign, 

Sails  the  unshadowed  main,  — 

The  venturous  bark  that  flings 

On  the  sweet  summer  wind  its  purpled 

wings 
In  gulfs  enchanted,   where  the  Siren 

sings, 

And  coral  reefs  lie  bare, 
Where  the  cold  sea-maids  rise  to  suu 
their  streaming  hair. 

Its  webs  of  living  gauze  no  more  unfurl ; 
"Wrecked  is  the  ship  of  pearl ! 
And  every  chambered  cell, 
Where  its  dim  dreaming  life  was  wont  to 

dwell, 
As  the  frail  tenant  shaped  his  growing 

shell, 

Before  thee  lies  revealed,  — 
Its  irised  ceiling  rent,  its  sunless  crypt 
x. unsealed ! 

Year  after  year  beheld  the  silent  toil 
That  spread  his  lustrous  coil ; 
Still,  as  the  spiral  grew, 

He  left  the  past  year's  dwelling  for  the 
new, 


Stole  with  soft  step  its  shining  archway 

through, 

Built  up  its  idle  door, 
Stretched  in  his  last-found  home,  and 
knew  the  old  no  more. 

Thanks  for  the  heavenly  message  brought 

by  thee, 

Child  of  the  wandering  sea, 
Cast  from  her  lap,  forlorn  ! 
From  thy  dead  lips  a  clearer  note  is 

born 
Than  ever  Triton  blew  from  wreathed 

horn ! 

While  on  mine  ear  it  rings, 
Through  the  deep  caves  of  thought  I 
bear  a  voice  that  sings  :  — 

Build  thee  more  stately  mansions,  O  my 

soul, 

As  the  swift  seasons  roll ! 
Leave  thy  low-vaulted  past ! 
Let  each  new  temple,  nobler  than  the 

last, 
Shut  thee  from  heaven  with  a  dome  more 

vast, 

Till  thou  at  length  art  free, 
Leaving  thine  outgrown  shell  by  life's 
unresting  sea ! 


162   POEMS  FROM  THE  AUTOCRAT  OF  THE  BREAKFAST  TABLE. 


SUN  AND  SHADOW. 

As  I  look  from  the  isle,  o'er  its  billows 

of  green, 

To  the  billows  of  foam-crested  blue, 
Yon  bark,  that  afar  in  the  distance  is 

seen, 

Half  dreaming,  my  eyes  will  pursue  : 
Now  dark  in  the  shadow,  she  scatters 

the  spray 

As  the  chaff  in  the  stroke  of  the  flail ; 
Now  white  as  the  sea-gull,  she  flies  on 

her  way, 
The  sun  gleaming  bright  on  her  sail. 

Yet  her  pilot  is  thinking  of  dangers  to 

shun,  — 

Of  breakers  that  whiten  and  roar  ; 
How  little  he  cares,  if  in  shadow  or  sun 
They  see  him  who  gaze  from  the  shore  ! 
He  looks  to  the  beacon  that  looms  from 

the  reef, 

To  the  rock  that  is  tinder  his  lee, 
As  he  drifts  on  the  blast,  like  a  wind- 
wafted  leaf, 
O'er  the  gulfs  of  the  desolate  sea. 

Thus  drifting  afar  to  the  dim-vaulted 

caves 

"Where  life  and  its  ventures  are  laid, 
The  dreamers  who  gaze  while  we  battle 

the  waves 

May  see  us  in  sunshine  or  shade  ; 
Yet   true   to  our  course,   though   the 

shadows  grow  dark, 
"We  '11  trim  our  broad  sail  as  before, 
And  stand  by  the  rudder  that  governs 

the  bark, 
Nor  ask  how  we  look  from  the  shore  ! 

THE  TWO  ARMIES. 

As  Life's  unending  column  pours, 
Two  marshalled  hosts  are  seen,  — 

Two  armies  on  the  trampled  shores 
That  Death  flows  black  between. 


One  marches  to  the  drum-beat's  roll, 
The  wide-mouthed  clarion's  bray, 

And  bears  upon  a  crimson  scroll, 
"  Our  glory  is  to  slay." 

One  moves  in  silence  by  the  stream, 
With  sad,  yet  watchful  eyes, 

Calm  as  the  patient  planet's  gleam 
That  walks  the  clouded  skies. 

Along  its  front  no  sabres  shine, 
No  blood-red  pennons  wave  ; 

Its  banner  bears  the  single  line, 
"  Our  duty  is  to  save." 

For  those  no  death-bed's  lingering  shade ; 

At  Honor's  trumpet-call, 
With  knitted  brow  and  lifted  blade 

In  Glory's  arms  they  falL 

For  these  no  clashing  falchions  bright, 

No  stirring  battle-cry  ; 
The  bloodless  stabber  calls  by  night,  — 

Each  answers,  "  Here  am  I  ! " 

For  those  the  sculptor's  laurelled  bust, 

The  builder's  marble  piles, 
The  anthems  pealing  o'er  their  dust 

Through  long  cathedral  aisles. 

For  these  the  blossom-sprinkled  turf 
That  floods  the  lonely  graves 

When  Spring  rolls  in  her  sea-green  surf 
In  flowery-foaming  waves. 

Two  paths  lead  upward  from  below, 

And  angels  wait  above, 
Who  count  each  burning  life-drop's  flow, 

Each  falling  tear  of  Love. 

Though  from  the  Hero's  bleeding  breast 

Her  pulses  Freedom  drew, 
Though  the  white  lilies  in  her  crest 

Sprang  from  that  scarlet  dew,  — 


MUSA. 


163 


While  Valor's  haughty  champions  wait 
Till  all  their  scars  are  shown, 

Love  walks  unchallenged  through  the 

gate, 
To  sit  beside  the  Throne  ! 


MUSA. 

0  MY  lost  beauty  !  —  hast  thou  folded 

quite 

Thy  wings  of  morning  light 
Beyond  those  iron  gates 
Where  Life  crowds  hurrying  to  the  hag- 
gard Fates, 
And  Age  upon  his  mound  of  ashes  waits 

To  chill  our  fiery  dreams, 
Hot  from  the  heart  of  youth  plunged  in 
his  icy  streams  ? 

Leave  me  not  fading  in  these  weeds  of 

care, 

Whose  flowers  are  silvered  hair  ! 
Have  I  not  loved  thee  long, 
Though  my  young  lips  have  often  done 

thee  wrong, 
And  vexed  thy  heaven-tuned  ear  with 

careless  song  ? 
Ah,  wilt  thou  yet  return, 
Bearing  thy  rose-hued  torch,  and  bid 
thine  altar  burn  ? 

Come  to  me  !  —  I  will  flood  thy  silent 

shrine 

With  my  soul's  sacred  wine, 
And  heap  thy  marble  floors 
As  the  wild  spice-trees  waste  their  fra- 
grant stores, 
In  leafy  islands  walled  with  madrepores 

And  lapped  in  Orient  seas, 
When   all    their   feathery  palms    toss, 
plume-like,  in  the  breeze. 

Come  to  me  !  —  thou  shalt  feed  on  hon- 
eyed words, 
Sweeter  than  song  of  birds  ;  — 


No  wailing  bulbul's  throat, 
No  melting  dulcimer's  melodious  note 
When  o'er  the  midnight  wave  its  mur- 
murs float, 

Thy  ravished  sense  might  soothe 
With  flow  so  liquid-soft,  with  strain  so 
velvet-smooth. 

Thou  shalt  be  decked  with  jewels,  like 

a  queen, 

Sought  in  those  bowers  of  green 
Where  loop  the  clustered  vines 
And     the    close-clinging    dulcamara1 

twines,  — 

Pure  pearls  of  Maydew  where  the  moon- 
light shines, 

And  Summer's  fruited  gems, 
And  coral  pendants  shorn  from  Autumn's 
berried  stems. 

Sit  by  me  drifting  on  the  sleepy  waves,  — 

Or  stretched  by  grass-grown  graves, 

Whose  gray,  high-shouldered  stones, 

Carved  with  old  names  Life's  time-worn 

roll  disowns, 
Lean,  lichen-spotted,  o'er  the  crumbled 

bones 

Still  slumbering  where  they  lay 
While  the  sad  Pilgrim  watched  to  scare 
the  wolf  away. 

Spread  o'er   my  couch    thy  visionary 

wing! 

Still  let  me  dream  and  sing,  — 
Dream  of  that  winding  shore 
Where  scarlet  cardinals  bloom  —  for  me 

no  more,  — 
The   stream  with  heaven  beneath  its 

liquid  floor, 

And  clustering  nenuphars 
Sprinkling  its  mirrored  blue  like  golden- 
chaliced  stars ! 

1  The  "  bitter-sweet "  of  New  England  is  the 
Celastrus  scandens,  —  "  Bourreau  des  arbres  " 
of  the  Canadian  French. 


164   POEMS  FROM  THE  AUTOCRAT  OF  THE  BREAKFAST  TABLE. 


Come  while  their  balms  the  linden-blos- 
soms shed !  — 

Come  while  the  rose  is  red,  — 
While  blue-eyed  Summer  smiles 
On  the  green  ripples  round  yon  sunken 

piles 
Washed  by  the  moon-wave  warm  from 

Indian  isles, 
And  on  the  sultry  air 
The  chestnuts  spread  their  palms  like 
holy  men  in  prayer ! 

0  for  thy  burning  lips  to  fire  my  brain 
With  thrills  of  wild,  sweet  pain  !  — 
On  life's  autumnal  blast, 
Like  shrivelled  leaves,  youth's  passion- 
flowers are  cast,  — 
Once  loving  thee,  we  love  thee  to  the 

last!  — 

Behold  thy  new-decked  shrine, 
And  hear  once  more   the   voice    that 
breathed  "Forever  thine!" 


A  PARTING  HEALTH. 

TO  J.    L.    MOTLEY. 

YES,  we  knew  we  must  lose  him,  — 
though  friendship  may  claim 

To  blend  her  green  leaves  with  the  lau- 
rels of  fame ; 

Though  fondly,  at  parting,  we  call  him 
our  own, 

'T  is  the  whisper  of  love  when  the  bugle 
has  blown. 

As  the  rider  that  rests  with  the  spur  on 

his  heel, 
As  the  guardsman  that  sleeps  in  his 

corselet  of  steel, 
As  the  archer  that  stands  with  his  shaft 

on  the  string, 
He  stoops  from  his  toil  to  the  garland 

we  bring. 


What  pictures  yet  slumber  unborn  in 
his  loom, 

Till  their  warriors  shall  breathe  and 
their  beauties  shall  bloom, 

While  the  tapestry  lengthens  the  life- 
glowing  dyes 

That  caught  from  our  sunsets  the  stain 
of  their  skies ! 

In  the  alcoves  of  death,  in  the  charnels 

of  time, 
Where  flit  the  gaunt  spectres  of  passion 

and  crime, 
There  are  triumphs  untold,  there  are 

martyrs  unsung, 
There  are  heroes  yet  silent  to  speak  with 

his  tongue  ! 

Let  us  hear  the  proud  story  which  time 
has  bequeathed ! 

From  lips  that  are  warm  with  the  free- 
dom they  breathed  ! 

Let  him  summon  its  tyrants,  and  tell  us 
their  doom, 

Though  he  sweep  the  black   past  like 

Van  Tromp  with  his  broom ! 

*  *  * 

The  dream  flashes  by,  for  the  west-winds 
awake 

On  pampas,  on  prairie,  o'er  mountain 
and  lake, 

To  bathe  the  swift  bark,  like  a  sea- 
girdled  shrine, 

With  incense  they  stole  from  the  rose 
and  the  pine. 

So  fill  a  bright  cup  with  the  sunlight 

that  gushed 
When  the  dead  summer's  jewels  were 

trampled  and  crushed  : 
THE  TRUE  KNIGHT  OF  LEARNING,  — 

the  world  holds  him  dear,  — 
Love  bless  him,  Joy  crown  him,  God 

speed  his  career ! 

1857. 


WHAT  WE   ALL  THINK.  —  SPRING   HAS   COME. 


165 


WHAT  WE  ALL  THINK. 

THAT  age  was  older  once  than  now, 
In  spite  of  locks  untimely  shed, 

Or  silvered  on  the  youthful  brow  ; 
That  babes  make  love  and  children 
wed. 

That  sunshine  had  a  heavenly  glow, 
Which  faded  with  those  "good  old 
days  " 

When  winters  carne  with  deeper  snow, 
And  autumns  with  a  softer  haze. 

That  —  mother,  sister,  wife,  or  child  — 
The    "best  of    women"    each   has 
known. 

Were  school-boys  ever  half  so  wild  ? 
How    young    the  grandpapas    have 


grown 


That  but  for  this  our  souls  were  free, 
And  but  for  that  our  lives  were  blest  ; 

That  in  some  season  yet  to  be 

Our  cares  will  leave  us  time  to  rest. 

Whene'er  we  groan  with  ache  or  pain,  — 
Some  common  ailment  of  the  race,  — 

Though    doctors     think    the    matter 

plain,  — 
That  ours  is  "  a  peculiar  case." 

That  when  like  babes  with  fingers  burned 
We  count  one  bitter  maxim  more, 

Our  lesson  all  the  world  has  learned, 
And  men  are  wiser  than  before. 

That  when  we  sob  o'er  fancied  woes, 
The  angels  hovering  overhead 

Count  every  pitying  drop  that  flows, 
And  love  us  for  the  tears  we  shed. 

That  when  we  stand  with  tearless  eye  . 

And  turn  the  beggar  from  our  door, 
They  still  approve  us  when  we  sigh, 

"  Ah,  had  I  but  one  thousand  more  I  " 


Though   temples   crowd  the   crumbled 
brink 

O'erhanging  truth's  eternal  flow, 
Their  tablets  bold  with  what  we  think, 

Their  echoes  dumb  to  wJiat  we  know; 

That  one  unquestioned  text  we  read, 
All  doubt  beyond,  all  fear  above, 

Nor  crackling  pile  nor  cursing  creed 
Can  burn  or  blot  it :  GOD  is  LOVE  ! 


SPRING  HAS  COME. 

INTRA  MUROS. 

THE  sunbeams,  lost  for  half  a  year, 
Slant  through  my  pane  their  morning 
rays  ; 

For  dry  northwesters  cold  and  clear, 
The  east  blows  in  its  thin  blue  haze. 

And  first  the  snowdrop's  bells  are  seen, 
Then  close  against  the  sheltering  wall 

The  tulip's  horn  of  dusky  green, 
The  peony's  dark  unfolding  ball. 

The  golden-chaliced  crocus  burns  ; 

The  long  narcissiis-blades  appear  ; 
The  cone-beaked  hyacinth  returns 

To  light  her  blue-flamed  chandelier. 

The  willow's  whistling  lashes,  wrung 
By  the  wild  winds  of  gusty  March, 

With  sallow  leaflets  lightly  strong, 
Are  swaying  by  the  tufted  larch. 

The  elms  have  robed  their  slender  spray 
With  full-blown  flower  and  embryo 
leaf; 

Wide  o'er  the  clasping  arch  of  day 
Soars  like  a  cloud  their  hoary  chief. 

See  the  proud  tulip's  flaunting  cup, 
That  flames  in  glory  for  an  hour,  — 

Behold  it  withering,  —  then  look  up,  — 
Howmeek  the  forest  monarch's  flower! 


166   POEMS  FKOM  THE  AUTOCRAT  OF  THE  BREAKFAST  TABLE. 

PROLOGUE. 


When  wake  the  violets,  Winter  dies  ; 

When  sprout  the  elm-buds,  Spring  is 

near; 
When  lilacs  blossom,  Summer  cries, 

"  Bud,  little  roses  !  Spring  is  here  ! " 


The  windows  blush  with  fresh  bouquets, 
Cut  with  the  May -dew  on  their  lips  ; 

The  radish  all  its  bloom  displays, 
Pink  as  Aurora's  finger-tips. 

Nor  less  the  flood  of  light  that  showers 
On  beauty's  changed  corolla-shades, — 

The  walks  are  gay  as  bridal  bowers 
With  rows  of  many-petalled  maids. 

The  scarlet  shell-fish  click  and  clash 

In  the  blue  barrow  where  they  slide  ; 
The   horseman,   proud    of   streak  and 

splash, 

Creeps  homeward  from  his  morning 
ride. 

Here  comes  the  dealer's  awkward  string, 
With  neck  in  rope  and  tail  in  knot,  — 

Rough  colts,  with  careless  country-swing, 
In  lazy  walk  or  slouching  trot. 


Wild  filly  from  the  mountain-side, 
Doomed  to  the  close  and  chafing  thifls, 

Lend  me  thy  long,  untiring  stride 
To  seek  with  thee  thy  western  hills  ! 

I  hear  the  whispering  voice  of  Spring, 
The  thrush's  trill,  the  robin's  cry, 

Like  some  poor  bird  with  prisoned  wing 
That  sits  and  sings,  but  longs  to  fly. 

0  for  one  spot  of  living  green,  — 
One    little    spot   where    leaves    can 
grow, — 

To  love  unblamed,  to  walk  unseen, 
To  dream  above,  to  sleep  below  ! 


A  PROLOGUE  ?  Well,  of  course  the  ladies 

know  ;  — 
I  have  my  doubts.     No  matter,  —  here 

we  go  ! 
What  is  a  Prologue  ?    Let  our  Tutor 

teach  : 
Pro  means  beforehand  ;  logos  stands  for 

speech. 
'T  is  like  the  harper's  prelude  on  the 

strings, 
The    prinm  donna's    courtesy  ere  she 

sings  :  — 

Prologues  in  metre  are  to  other  pros 
As  worsted  stockings  are  to  engine-hose. 
"The  world's  a  stage,"  —  as   Shake- 
speare said,  one  day; 
The  stage  a  world  —  was  what  he  meant 

to  say. 
The  outside  world 's  a  blunder,  that  is 

clear ; 

The  real  world  that  Nature  meant  is  here. 
Here    every   foundling    finds    its    lost 

mamma ; 
Each  rogue,  repentant,  melts  his  stern 

papa; 
Misers   relent,  the  spendthrift's  debts 

are  paid, 
The  cheats  are  taken  in  the  traps  they 

laid  ; 

One  after  one  the  troubles  all  are  past 
Till  the  fifth  act  comes  right  side  up  at 

last, 
When    the  young    couple,    old    folks, 

rogues,  and  all, 

Join  hands,  so  happy  at  the  curtain's  fall. 
Here  suffering  virtue  ever  finds  relief, 
And  black-browed  ruffians  always  come 

to  grief. 
When  the  lorn  damsel,  with  a  frantic 

screech, 

And  cheeks  as  hueless  as  a  brandy -peach, 
Cries,    "Help,   kyind    Heaven!"   and 

drops  upon  her  kneea 


PROLOGUE. 


167 


On  the  green  —  baize,  —  beneath  the 
(canvas)  trees,  — 

See  to  her  side  avenging  Valor  fly  :  — 

"  Ha  !  Villain  !  Draw  !  Now,  Terrai- 
torr,  yield  or  die  ! " 

When  the  poor  hero  flounders  in  despair, 

Some  dear  lost  uncle  turns  up  million- 
naire, 

Clasps  the  young  scrapegrace  with  pater- 
nal joy, 

Sobs  on  his  neck,  "  My  boy  I  MY  BOY  !  ! 
MY  BOY!!!" 

Ours,  then,  sweet  friends,  the  real  world 

to-night, 

Of  love  that  conquers  in  disaster's  spite. 
Ladies,  attend  !     While  woful  cares  and 

doubt 
Wrong  the  soft  passion  in  the  world 

without, 
Though  fortune  scowl,  though  prudence 

interfere, 
One  thing  is  certain  :  Love  will  triumph 

here  ! 
Lords  of  creation,   whom  your  ladies 

rule,  — 
The  world's  great  masters,  when  you  're 

out  of  school,  — 
Learn  the  brief  moral  of  our  evening's 

play: 
Man  has  his  will,  — but  woman  has  her 

way ! 
While  man's  dull  spirit  toils  in  smoke 

and  fire, 

Woman's  swift  instinct  threads  the  elec- 
tric wire,  — 
The  magic  bracelet  stretched  beneath 

the  waves 
Beats  the  black  giant  with  his  score  of 

slaves. 

All  earthly  powers  confess  your  sov- 
ereign art 
But  that  one  rebel,  —  woman's  wilful 

heart. 
All  foes  you  master,  but  a  woman's  wit 


Lets  daylight  through  you  ere  you  know 

you  're  hit. 
So,  just  to  picture  what  her  art  can  do, 
Hear  an  old  story,  made  as  good  as  new. 

Rudolph,  professor  of  the  headsman's 

trade, 

Alike  was  famous  for  his  arm  and  blade. 
One  day  a  prisoner  Justice  had  to  kill 
Knelt  at  the  block  to  test  the  artist's 

skill. 
Bare-armed,  swart-visaged,  gaunt,  and 

shaggy-browed , 
Rudolph  the  headsman  rose  above  the 

crowd. 
His    falchion    lighted  with  a   sudden 


As  the  pike's  armor  flashes  in  the 
stream. 

He  sheathed  his  blade  ;  he  turned  as 
if  to  go ; 

The  victim  knelt,  still  waiting  for  the 
blow. 

"  Why  strikest  not  ?  Perform  thy  mur- 
derous act," 

The  prisoner  said.  (His  voice  was 
slightly  cracked.) 

"Friend,  I  have  struck,**  the  artist 
straight  replied; 

"Wait  but  one  moment,  and  yourself 
decide." 

He  held  his  snuff-box,  —  "Now  then, 
if  you  please  ! " 

The  prisoner  sniffed,  and,  with  a  crash- 
ing sneeze, 

Off  his  head  tumbled,  —  bowled  along 
the  floor,  — 

Bounced  down  the  steps  ;  —  the  pris- 
oner said  no  more  ! 

Woman !  thy  falchion  is  a  glittering  eye ; 

If  death  lurk  in  it,  0  how  sweet  to  die  ! 

Thou  takest  hearts  as  Rudolph  took  the 
head  ; 

We  die  with  love,  and  never  dream 
we  're  deau ', 


168      POEMS  FROM  THE  AUTOCRAT  OF  THE  BREAKFAST  TABLE. 


LATTER-DAY  WARNINGS. 

WHEX  legislators  keep  the  law, 
When  banks  dispense  with  bolts  and 

locks,  — 
When    berries  —  whortle,    rasp,    and 

straw  — 

Grow  bigger  downwards  through  the 
box,  — 

When  he  that  selleth  house  or  land 
Shows  leak  in  roof  or  flaw  in  right,  — 

When  haberdashers  choose  the  stand 
Whose   window   hath   the    broadest 
light,  — 

When  preachers  tell  us  all  they  think, 
And  party  leaders  all  they  mean,  — 

When  what  we  pay  for,  that  we  drink, 
From  real  grape  and  coffee-bean,  — 

When  lawyers  take  what  they  would 

give, 
And  doctors  give  what  they  would 

take,  — 
When  city  fathers  eat  to  live, 

Save  when  they  fast  for  conscience' 
sake,  T— 

When  one  that  hath  a  horse  on  sale 
Shall  bring  his  merit  to  the  proof, 

Without  a  lie  for  every  nail 

That  holds  the  iron  on  the  hoof,  — 

When  in  the  usual  place  for  rips 
Our  gloves  are  stitched  with  special 
care, 

And  guarded  well  the  whalebone  tips 
Where  first  umbrellas  need  repair,  — 

When  Cuba's  weeds  have  quite  forgot 
The  power  of  suction  to  resist, 

And  claret-bottles  harbor  not 
Such   dimples  as  would    hold  your 
fist, — 


When  publishers  no  longer  steal, 

And  pay  for  what  they  stole  before,  — 

When  the  first  locomotive's  wheel 
Rolls  through  the   Hoosac   tunnel's 
bore  ;  — 

Till  then  let  Gumming  blaze  away, 
And  Miller's  saints  blow  up  the  globe ; 

But  when  you  see  that  blessed  day. 
Then  order  your  ascension  robe ! 


ALBUM  VERSES. 

WHEN  Eve  had  led  her  lord  away, 
And  Cain  had  killed  his  brother, 

The  stars  and  flowers,  the  poets  say, 
Agreed  with  one  another 

To  cheat  the  cunning  tempter's  art, 
And  teach  the  race  its  duty, 

By  keeping  on  its  wicked  heart 
Their  eyes  of  light  and  beauty. 

A  million  sleepless  lids,  they  say, 

Will  be  at  least  a  warning ; 
And  so  the  flowers  would  watch  by  day, 

The  stars  from  eve  to  morning. 

On  hill  and  prairie,  field  and  lawn, 

Their  dewy  eyes  upturning, 
The  flowers  still  watch  from  reddening 
dawn 

Till  western  skies  are  burning. 

Alas !  each  hour  of  daylight  tells 
A  tale  of  shame  so  crushing, 

That  some  turn  white  as  sea-bleached 

shells, 
And  some  are  always  blushing. 

But  when  the  patient  stars  look  down 

On  all  their  light  discovers, 
The  traitor's  smile,  the  murderer's  frown, 

The  lips  of  lying  lovers, 


A  GOOD  TIME  GOING! 


169 


They  try  to  shut  their  saddening  eyes, 

And  in  the  vain  endeavor 
"We  see  them  twinkling  in  the  skies, 

And  so  they  wink  forever. 


A  GOOD  TIME  GOING  I 

BRAVE  singer  of  the  coming  time, 

Sweet  minstrel  of  the  joyous  present, 
Crowned  with  the   noblest  wreath   of 
rhyme, 

The  holly-leaf  of  Ayrshire's  peasant, 
Good  by  !  Good  by  !  —  Our  hearts  and 
hands, 

Our  lips  in  honest  Saxon  phrases, 
Cry,  God  be  with  him,  till  he  stands 

His  feet  among  the  English  daisies ! 

'T  is  here  we  pail ;  —  for  other  eyes 

The  busy  deck,  the  fluttering  streamer, 
The  dripping  arms  that  plunge  and  rise, 

The  waves  in  foam,  the  ship  in  tremor, 
The  kerchiefs  waving  from  the  pier, 

The  cloudy  pillar  gliding  o'er  him, 
The  deep  blue  desert,  lone  and  drear, 

With  heaven  above  and  home  before 
him  ! 

His  home  !  —  the  Western  giant  smiles, 
And  twirls  the  spotty  globe  to  find 

it;  — 
This  little  speck  the  British  Isles  ? 

'T  is  but  a  freckle,  —  never  mind  it ! 
He  laughs,  and  all  his  prairies  roll, 
Each    gurgling    cataract    roars    and 

chuckles, 

And  ridges  stretched  from  pole  to  pole 
Heave    till    they    crack    their    iron 
knuckles  ! 

But  Memory  blushes  at  the  sneer, 
And  Honor  turns  with  frown  defiant, 

And  Freedom,  leaning  on  her  spear, 
Laughs    louder    than    the    laughing 
giant :          . 


"An  islet  is  a  world,"  she  said, 

"When    glory    with    its    dust    has 

blended, 

And  Britain  keeps  her  noble  dead 
Till  earth   and  seas  and   skies    are 
rended ! " 

Beneath  each  swinging  forest-bough 

Some  arm  as  stout  in  death  reposes,  — 
From  wave-washed  foot  to  heaven-kissed 
brow 

Her  valor's  life-blood  runs  in  roses ; 
Nay,  let  our  brothers  of  the  West 

Write  smiling  in  their  florid  pages, 
One  half  her  soil  has  walked  the  rest 

In  poets,  heroes,  martyrs,  sages ! 

Hugged  in  the  clinging  billow's  clasp, 

From    sea-weed  fringe  to  mountain 

heather, 
The  British  oak  with  rooted  grasp 

Her  slender  handful  holds  together ;  — 
With  cliffs  of  white  and  bowers  of  green, 

And  Ocean  narrowing  to  caress  her, 
And  hills   and  threaded    streams    be- 
tween, — 

Our  little  mother  isle,  God  bless  her ! 

In  earth's  broad  temple  where  we  stand, 

Fanned  by  the   eastern    gales    that 

brought  us, 
We  hold  the  missal  in  our  hand, 

Bright   with   the   lines   our  Mother 

taught  us. 
Where'er  its  blazoned  page  betrays 

The  glistening  links  of  gilded  fetters, 
Behold,  the  half-turned  leaf  displays 

Her  rubric  stained  in  crimson  letters  I 

Enough  !     To  speed  a  parting  friend 
'T  is  vain  alike  to  speak  and  listen  ;  — 

Yet  stay,  —  these  feeble  accents  blend 
With  rays  of  light  from  eyes  that 
glisten. 

Good  by  !  once  more,  —  and  kindly  tell 


170   POEMS  FKOM  THE  AUTOCRAT  OF  THE  BREAKFAST  TABLE. 


In  words  of  peace  the  young  world's 

story,  — 

And  say,  besides,  we  love  too  well 
Our  mothers'  soil,  our  fathers'  glory  ! 


THE  LAST   BLOSSOM. 

THOUGH  young  no  more,  we  still  would 
dream 

Of  beauty's  dear  deluding  wiles  ; 
The  leagues  of  life  to  graybeards  seem 

Shorterthan  boyhood's  lingeringmiles. 

Who  knows  a  woman's  wild  caprice  ? 

It  played  with  Goethe's  silvered  hair, 
And  many  a  Holy  Father's  "  niece  " 

Has  softly  smoothed  the  papal  chair. 

When  sixty  bids  us  sigh  in  vain 
To  melt  the  heart  of  sweet  sixteen, 

We  think  upon  those  ladies  twain 
Who  loved  so  well  the  tough  old  Dean. 

We  see  the  Patriarch's  wintry  face, 
The  maid  of  Egypt's  dusky  glow, 

And  dream  that  Youth  and  Age  embrace, 
As  April  violets  fill  with  snow. 

Tranced  in  her  lord's  Olympian  smile 
His  lotus-loving  Memphian  lies,  — 

The  musky  daughter  of  the  Nile, 
With  plaited  hair  and  almond  eyes. 

Might  we  but  share  one  wild  caress 
Ere  life's  autumnal  blossoms  fall, 

And  Earth's  brown,  clinging  lips  impress 
The  long  cold  kiss  that  waits  us  all ! 

My  bosom  heaves,  remembering  yet 
The  morning  of  that  blissful  day, 

When  Rose,  the  flower  of  spring,  I  met, 
And  gave  my  raptured  soul  away. 

Flung  from  her  eyes  of  purest  blue, 
A  lasso,  with  its  leaping  chain, 


Light  as  a  loop  of  larkspurs,  flew 

O'er  sense  and  spirit,  heart  and  brain. 

Thou  com'st  to  cheer  my  waning  age, 
Sweet  vision,  waited  for  so  long  ! 

Dove  that  would  seek  the  poet's  cage 
Lured  by  the  magic  breath  of  song  ! 

She  blushes  !     Ah,  reluctant  maid, 
Love's  drapeau  rouge  the  truth  has 

told! 
O'er  girlhood's  yielding  barricade 

Floats  the  great   Leveller's  crimson 
fold ! 

Come  to  my  arms  !  —  love  heeds  not 
years; 

No  frost  the  bud  of  passion  knows.  — 
Ha  !  what  is  this  my  frenzy  hears  ? 

A  voice  behind  me  uttered,  —  Rose  ! 

Sweet  was  her  smile,  —  but  not  for  me  ; 

Alas  !  when  woman  looks  too  kind, 
Just  turn  your  foolish  head  and  see,  — 

Some  youth  is  walking  close  behind  ! 


CONTENTMENT. 

"  Man  wants  but  little  here  below." 

LITTLE  I  ask  ;  my  wants  are  few  ; 

I  only  wish  a  hut  of  stone, 
(A  very  plain  brown  stone  will  do,) 

That  I  may  call  my  own  ;  — 
And  close  at  hand  is  such  a  one, 
In  yonder  street  that  fronts  the  sun. 

Plain  food  is  quite  enough  for  me  ; 

Three  courses  are  as  good  as  ten  ;  — 
If  Nature  can  subsist  on  three, 

Thank  Heaven  for  three.  Amen  ! 
I  always  thought  cold  victual  nice  ;  — 
My  choice  would  be  vanilla-ice. 

I  care  not  much  for  gold  or  land  ;  — 
Give  me  a  mortgage  here  and  there,  — 


AESTIVATION. 


Some  good  bank-stock,   some  note  of 

hand, 

Or  trifling  railroad  share,  — 
I  only  ask  that  Fortune  send 
A  little  more  than  I  shall  spend. 

Honors  are  silly  toys,  I  know, 

And  titles  are  but  empty  names  ; 
I  would,  perhaps,  be  Plenipo,  — 

But  only  near  St.  James  ; 
I  'm  very  sure  I  should  not  care 
To  fill  our  Gubernator's  chair. 

Jewels  are  bawbles  ;  't  is  a  sin 

To  care  for  such  unfruitful  things  ;  — 
One  good-sized  diamond  in  a  pin,  — 
Some,  not  so  large,  in  rings,  — 
A  ruby,  and  a  pearl,  or  so, 
Will  do  for  me  ;  —  I  laugh  at  show. 

My  dame  should  dress  in  cheap  attire  ; 

(Good,  heavy  silks  are  never  dear ;)  — 
I  own  perhaps  I  might  desire 

Some  shawls  of  true  Cashmere,  — 
Some  marrowy  crapes  of  China  silk, 
Like  wrinkled  skins  on  scalded  milk. 

I  would  not  have  the  horse  I  drive 

So  fast  that  folks  must  stop  and  stare  ; 
An  easy  gait  —  two,  forty -five  — 
Suits  me  ;  I  do  not  care  ;  — 
Perhaps,  for  just  a  single  spurt, 
Some  seconds  less  would  do  no  hurt. 

Of  pictures,  I  should  like  to  own 

Titians  and  Raphaels  three  or  four,  — 
I  love  so  much  their  style  and  tone,  — 

One  Turner,  and  no  more, 
(A     landscape,  —  foreground      golden 

dirt,  — 
The  sunshine  painted  with  a  squirt.) 

Of  books  but  few,  —  some  fifty  score 
For  daily  use,  and  bound  for  wear ; 
The  rest  upon  an  upper  floor  ;  — 
Some  little  luxury  there 


Of  red  morocco's  gilded  gleam, 
And  vellum  rich  as  country  cream. 

Busts,  cameos,  gems,  —  such  things  as 

these, 

Which  others  often  show  for  pride, 
/  value  for  their  power  to  please, 

And  selfish  churls  deride  ;  — 
One  Stradivarius,  I  confess, 
Two  Meerschaums,  I  would  fain  possess. 

Wealth's  wasteful  tricks  I  will  not  learn 
Nor  ape  the  glittering  upstart  fool ;  — 
Shall  not  carved  tables  serve  my  turn, 

But  all  must  be  of  buhl  ? 
Give  grasping  pomp  its  double  share,  — 
I  ask  but  one  recumbent  chair. 

Thus  humble  let  me  live  and  die, 

Nor  long  for  Midas'  golden  touch  ; 
If  Heaven  more  generous  gifts  deny, 

I  shall  not  miss  them  much,  — 
Too  grateful  for  the  blessing  lent 
Of  simple  tastes  and  mind  content ! 

/ESTIVATION. 

AN    TTNPTTBLISHED    POEM,    BY    MY  LATE 
LATIN    TUTOR. 

IN  candent  ire  the  solar  splendor  flames ; 
The  foles,  languescent,  pend  from  arid 

rames ; 
His   humid   front   the   cive,    anheling, 

wipes, 
And  dreamsof  erring  onventiferous  ripes. 

How  dulce  to  vive  occult  to  mortal  eyes, 
Dorm  on  the  herb  with  none  to  supervise, 
Carp  the  suave  berries  from  the  crescent 

vine, 
And  bibe  the  flow  from  longicaudate 

kine  ! 

To  me,  alas  !  no  verdurous  visions  come, 
Save    yon    exiguous    pool's    conferva- 
scum,  — 


172   POEMS  FROM  THE  AUTOCRAT  OF  THE  BREAKFAST  TABLE. 


No  concave  vast  repeats  the  tender  hue 
That  laves  my  milk -jug  with  celestial 
blue! 

Me  wretched  !  Let  me  curr  to  quercine 

shades ! 
Effund  your  albid    hausts,   lactiferous 

maids  1 
0,  might  I  vole  to  some  umbrageous 

clump,  — 
Depart,  —  be  off,  —  excede,  —  evade,  — 

erump ! 


THE  DEACON'S  MASTERPIECE; 

OE,  THE  WONDERFUL  "ONE-HOSS  SHAY." 
A  LOGICAL  STORY. 

HAVE  you  heard  of  the  wonderful  one- 

hoss  shay, 

That  was  built  in  such  a  logical  way 
It  ran  a  hundred  years  to  a  day, 
And  then,  of  a  sudden,  it ah,  but 

stay, 

I  '11  tell  you  what  happened  without  delay, 
Scaring  the  parson  into  fits, 
Frightening  people  out  of  their  wits,  — 
Have  you  ever  heard  of  that,  I  say  I 

Seventeen  hundred  and  fifty-five. 
Georgius  Secundus  was  then  alive,  — 
Snuffy  old  drone  from  the  German  hive. 
That  was  the  year  when  Lisbon-town 
Saw  the  earth  open  and  gulp  her  down, 
And  Braddock's  army  was  done  so  brown, 
Left  without  a  scalp  to  its  crown. 
It  was  on  the  terrible  Earthquake-day 
That  the  Deacon  finished  the  one-hoss 
shay. 

Now  in  building  of  chaises,  I  tell  you 

what, 
There  is  always  somewhere  a  weakest 

spot,  — 
In  hub,  tire,  felloe,  in  spring  or  thill, 


In  panel,  or  crossbar,  or  floor,  or  sill, 
In  screw,  bolt,  thoroughbrace,  —  lurk- 
ing still, 

Find  it  somewhere  you  must  and  will,  — 
Above  or  below,  or  within  or  without,  — 
And  that  's  the  reason,  beyond  a  doubt, 
That  a  chaise  breaks  down,  but  does  n't 
wear  out. 

But  the  Deacon  swore,  (as  Deacons  do, 
With  an  "I  dew  vum,"  or  an  "I  tell 

yeou,") 
He  would  build  one  shay  to  beat  the 

taown 

'n'  the  keounty  'n'  all  the  kentry  raoun'  ; 
It  should  be  so  built  that  it  couldn'  break 

daown  : 
— ' '  Fur, "  said  the  Deacon,  "  't  's  mighty 

plain 
Thut  the  weakes'  place  mus'  stan'  the 

strain  ; 
'n'  the  way  t'  fix  it,  uz  I  maintain, 

Is  only  jest 
T'  make  that  place  uz  strong  uz  the  rest." 

So  the  Deacon  inquired  of  the  village 

folk 

Where  he  could  find  the  strongest  oak, 
That  could  n't  be  split  nor  bent  nor 

broke,  — 
That  was   for    spokes    and    floor    and 

sills ; 

He  sent  for  lancewood  to  make  the  thills ; 
The  crossbars  were  ash,  from  the  straight- 

est  trees, 
The  panels  of  white-wood,  that  cuts  like 

cheese, 

But  lasts  like  iron  for  things  like  these  ; 
The  hubs  of  logs  from  the  "Settler's 

ellum,"  — 
Last  of  its  timber,  —  they  could  n't  sell 

'em, 

Never  an  axe  had  seen  their  chips, 
And  the  wedges  flew  from  between  theit 

lips, 


THE  DEACON'S  MASTERPIECE. 


173 


Their  blunt  ends  frizzled  like  celery- 
tips; 

Step  and  prop-iron,  bolt  and  screw, 
Spring,  tire,  axle,  and  linchpin  too, 
Steel  of  the  finest,  bright  and  blue  ; 
Thoroughbrace  bison-skin,  thick  and 

wide  ; 

Boot,  top,  dasher,  from  tough  old  hide 
Found  in  the  pit  when  the  tanner  died. 
That    was    the    way    he    "  put    her 

through." — 

"There!"     said  the  Deacon,    "naow 
she  '11  dew  !  " 

Do  !     I  tell  you,  I  rather  guess 
She  was  a  wonder,  and  nothing  less  ! 
Colts  grew  horses,  beards  turned  gray, 
Deacon  and  deaconess  dropped  away, 
Children    and    grandchildren  —  where 

were  they  ? 
But  there  stood  the  stout  old  one-hoss 

shay 
As  fresh  as  on  Lisbon-earthquake-day  ! 

EIGHTEEN    HUNDRED  ;  —  it  came  and 

found 
The   Deacon's  masterpiece  strong  and 

sound. 

Eighteen  hundred  increased  by  ten  ;  — 
"  Hahnsum   kerridge "   they  called  it 

then. 

Eighteen  hundred  and  twenty  came  ;  — 
Running  as  usual  ;  much  the  same. 
Thirty  and  forty  at  last  arrive, 
And  then  come  fifty,  and  FIFTY-FIVE. 

Little  of  all  we  value  here 
Wakes  on  the  morn  of  its  hundredth  year 
Without  both  feeling  and  looking  queer. 
In  fact,  there 's  nothing  that  keeps  its 

youth, 

So  far  as  I  know,  but  a  tree  and  truth. 
(This  is  a  moral  that  runs  at  large  ; 
Take  it.  —  You  're  welcome.  —  No  extra 

charge.) 


FIRST  OF  NOVEMBER, — the  Earthquake- 
day  — 
There  are  traces  of  age  in  the  one-hoss 

shay, 

A  general  flavor  of  mild  decay, 
But  nothing  local,  as  one  may  say. 
There  could  n't  be,  —  for  the  Deacon's 

art 

Had  made  it  so  like  in  every  part 
That  there  was  n't  a  chance  for  one  to 

start. 
For  the  wheels  were  just  as  strong  as  the 

thills, 
And  the  floor  was  just  as  strong  as  the 

sills, 

And  the  panels  just  as  strong  as  the  floor, 
And  the  whipple-tree  neither  less  nor 

more, 
And  the  back-crossbar  as  strong  as  the 

fore, 

And  spring  and  axle  and  hub  encore. 
And  yet,  as  a  whole,  it  is  past  a  doubt 
In  another  hour  it  will  be  worn  out  I 

First  of  November,  'Fifty-five  ! 

This  morning  the  parson  takes  a  drive. 

Now,  small  boys,  get  out  of  the  way  ! 

Here  comes  the  wonderful  one-hoss  shay, 

Drawn  by  a  rat-tailed,  ewe-necked  bay. 

"  Huddup  !  "  said  the  parson. — Off 
went  they. 

The  parson  was  working  his  Sunday's 
text,  — 

Had  got  to  fifthly,  and  stopped  per- 
plexed 

At  what  the — Moses — was  coming 
next. 

All  at  once  the  horse  stood  still, 

Close  by  the  meet'n'-house  on  the  hill. 

—  First  a  shiver,  and  then  a  thrill, 

Then  something  decidedly  like  a  spill, — 

And  the  parson  was  sitting  upon  a  rock, 

At  half  past  nine  by  the  meet'n'-house 
clock,  — 

Just  the  'lour  of  the  Earthquake  shock  1 


174   POEMS  FROM  THE  AUTOCRAT  OF  THE  BREAKFAST  TABLE. 


—  What  do  you  think  the  parson  found, 
When  he  got  up  and  stared  around  ? 
The  poor  old  chaise  in  a  heap  or  mound, 
As  if  it  had  been  to  the  mill  and  ground ! 
You  see,  of  course,  if  you  're  not  a  dunce, 
How  it  went  to  pieces  all  at  once,  — 
All  at  once,  and  nothing  first,  — 
Just  as  bubbles  do  when  they  burst. 

End  of  the  wonderful  one-hoss  shay. 
Logic  is  logic.     That 's  all  I  say. 

PARSON  TURELL'S  LEGACY. 

OR,  THE  PRESIDENT'S  OLD  ARM-CHAIR. 
A  MATHEMATICAL  STOBT. 

FACTS  respecting  an  old  arm-chair. 
At  Cambridge.     Is  kept  in  the  College 

there. 

Seems  but  little  the  worse  for  wear. 
That 's  remarkable  when  I  say 
It  was  old  in  President  Holyoke's  day. 
(One  of  his  boys,  perhaps  you  know, 
Died,  at  one  hundred,  years  ago.) 
He  took  lodgings  for  rain  or  shine 
Under  green  bed-clothes  in  '69. 

Know  old  Cambridge?  Hope  you  do.  — 
Born  there  ?   Don't  say  so  !    I  was,  too. 
(Born  in  a  house  with  a  gambrel-roof,  — 
Standing  still,  if  you  must  have  proof. — 
"  Gambrel  ? —  Gambrel  ?  "  —  Let  me  beg 
You  '11  look  at  a  horse's  hinder  leg,  — 
First  great  angle  above  the  hoof,  — 
That 's   the  gambrel  ;   hence  gambrel- 
roof.) 

—  Nicest  place  that  ever  was  seen,  — 
Colleges  red  and  Common  green, 
Sidewalks  brownish  with  trees  between. 
Sweetest  spot  beneath  the  skies 
When  the  canker-worms  don't  rise,  — 
When  the  dust,  that  sometimes  flies 
Into  your  mouth  and  ears  and  eyes, 
In  a  quiet  slumber  lies, 


Not  in  the  shape  of  unbaked  pies 
Such  as  barefoot  children  prize. 

A  kind  of  harbor  it  seems  to  be, 
Facing  the  flow  of  a  boundless  sea. 
Rows  of  gray  old  Tutors  stand 
Ranged  like  rocks  above  the  sand  ;" 
Rolling  beneath  them,  soft  and  green, 
Breaks  the  tide  of  bright  sixteen,  — 
One    wave,    two  waves,   three    waves, 

four,  — 

Sliding  up  the  sparkling  floor  : 
Then  it  ebbs  to  flow  no  more, 
Wandering  off  from  shore  to  shore 
With  its  freight  of  golden  ore  ! 
—  Pleasant  place  for  boys  to  play ;  — 
Better  keep  your  girls  away  ; 
Hearts  get  rolled  as  pebbles  do 
Which  countless  fingering  waves  pursue, 
And  every  classic  beach  is  strown 
With  heart-shaped  pebbles  of  blood-red 

stone. 

But  this  is  neither  here  nor  there  ;  — 
I  'm  talking  about  an  old  arm-chair. 
You  've  heard,  no   doubt,    of  PARSON 

TURELL  ? 

Over  at  Medford  he  used  to  dwell ; 
Married  one  of  the  Mathers'  folk  ; 
Got  with  his  wife  a  chair  of  oak,  — 
Funny  old  chair  with  seat  like  wedge, 
Sharp  behind  and  broad  front  edge,  — 
One  of  the  oddest  of  human  things,        , 
Turned  all  over  with  knobs  and  rings, — 
But  heavy,    and  wide,  and  deep,  and 

grand,  — 

Fit  for  the  worthies  of  the  land,  — 
Chief  Justice  Sewall  a  cause  to  try  in, 
Or  Cotton  Mather  to  sit  —  and  lie  —  in. 

Parson  Turell  bequeathed  the  same 
To  a  certain  student,  —  SMITH  by  name ; 
These  were  the  terms,  as  we  are  told  : 
' '  Saide  Smith  saide  Chaire  to  have  and 

holde  ; 
When  he  doth  graduate,  then  to  passe 


PARSON  TURELL'S  LEGACY. 


175 


To  y*  oldest  Youth  in  y*  Senior  Classe. 
On  Payment  of"  —  naming  a  certain 

sum)  — 

"  By  him  to  whom  y*  Chaire  shall  come; 
He  to  y'  oldest  Senior  next, 
And    soe    forever,"  —  (thus   runs    the 

text,)— 
"But  one  Crown  lesse  then  he  gave  to 

claime, 
That  being  his  Debte  for  use  of  same." 

Smith    transferred    it   to  one    of   the 

BROWNS, 
And    took    his    money,  —  five    silver 

crowns. 

Brown  delivered  it  up  to  MOORE, 
Who  paid,  it  is  plain,  not  five,  but  four. 
Moore  made  over  the  chair  to  LEE, 
Who  gave  him  crowns  of  silver  three. 
Lee  conveyed  it  unto  DREW, 
And  now  the  payment,  of  course,  was  two. 
2>rew  gave  up  the  chair  to  DUNN,  — 
All  he  got,  as  you  see,  was  one. 
Dunn  released  the  chair  to  HALL, 
And  got  by  the  bargain  no  crown  at  all. 
— -And  now  it  passed  to  a  second  BROWN, 
Who  took  it  and  likewise  claimed  a 

crown. 

When  Brown  conveyed  it  unto  WARE, 
Having  had  one  crown,  to  make  it  fair, 
He  paid  him  two  crowns  to  take  the 

chair ; 
And  Ware,  being  honest,  (as  all  Wares 

be,) 

He  paid  one  POTTER,  who  took  it,  three. 
Four  got  ROBINSON  ;  five  got  Dix  ; 
JOHNSON  primus  demanded  six  ; 
And  so  the  sum  kept  gathering  still 
Till  after  the  battle  of  Bunker's  Hill. 

—  When  paper  money  became  so 
cheap, 

Folks  would  n't  count  it,  but  said  "a 
heap," 

A.  certain  RICHARDS,  —  the  books  de- 
clare, — 


(A.  M.  in  '90  ?    I  Ve  looked  with  care 
Through    the    Triennial,  —  name    not 

there,)  — 

This  person,  Richards,  was  offered  then 
Eightscore    pounds,    but    would    have 

ten  ; 

Nine,  I  think,  was  the  sum  he  took,  — 
Not  quite  certain,  —  but  see  the  book. 

—  By  and  by  the  wars  were  still, 

But  nothing  had  altered  the  Parson's 

will. 

The  old  arm-chair  was  solid  yet, 
But   saddled  with   such   a  monstrous 

debt! 

Things  grew  quite  too  bad  to  bear, 
Paying  such  sums  to  get  rid  of  the 

chair  ! 

But  dead  men's  fingers  hold  awful  tight, 
And  there  was  the  will  in  black  and 

white, 

Plain  enough  for  a  child  to  spelL 
What  should  be  done  no  man  could  tell, 
For  the  chair  was  a  kind  of  nightmare 

curse, 
And  every  season  but  made  it  worse. 

As  a  last  resort,  to  clear  the  doubt, 
They  got  old  GOVERNOR  HANCOCK  out 
The  Governor   came  with    his   Light- 
horse  Troop 
And  his  mounted  truckmen,  all  cock-a- 
hoop  ; 

Halberds  glittered  and  colors  flew, 
French  horns  whinnied  and  trumpets 

blew, 
The  yellow  fifes  whistled  between  their 

teeth 
And  the  buinble-bee  bass-drums  boomed 

beneath ; 
So  he  rode  with  all  his  band, 
Till  the  President  met  him,  cap  in  hand. 

—  The  Governor  "hefted"  the  crowns, 

and  said,  — 
"A  will  is  a  will,  and  the  Parson's 
dead." 


176   POEMS  FEOM  THE  AUTOCRAT  OF  THE  BREAKFAST  TABLE. 


The  Governor  hefted  the  crowns.     Said 

he, — 
"There  is  your  p'int.     And  here  's  my 

fee. 

These  are  the  terms  you  must  fulfil,  — 
On    such    conditions    I    BREAK    THE 

WILL  ! " 
The  Governor  mentioned  what    these 

should  be. 

(Just  wait  a  minute  and  then  you  '11  see.) 
The  President  prayed.     Then  all  was 

still, 
And  the  Governor  rose  and  BROKE  THE 

WILL  ! 
—  "About  those  conditions?"    Well, 

now  you  go 
And  do  as  I  tell  you,  and  then  you  '11 

know. 

Once  a  year,  on  Commencement  day, 
If  you  '11  only  take  the  pains  to  stay, 
You  '11  see  the  President  in  the  CHAIR, 
Likewise  the  Governor  sitting  there. 
The  President  rises  ;  both  old  and  young 
May  hear  his  speech  in  a  foreign  tongue, 
The  meaning  whereof,  as  lawyers  swear, 


Is  this  :  Can  I  keep  this  old  arm-chair  ? 
And  then  his  Excellency  bows, 
As  much  as  to  say  that  he  allows. 
The  Vice-Gub.  next  is  called  by  name  ; 
He  bows  like  t'  other,  which  means  the 

same. 

And  all  the  officers  round  'em  bow, 
As  much  as  to  say  that  they  allow. 
And  a  lot  of  parchments  about  the  chair 
Are  handed  to  witnesses  then  and  there, 
And  then  the  lawyers  hold  it  clear 
That  the  chair  is  safe  for  another  year. 

God  bless  you,  Gentlemen  !    Learn  to 

give 

Money  to  colleges  while  you  live. 
Don't  be  silly  and  think  you  '11  try 
To  bother  the  colleges,  when  you  die, 
With  codicil  this,  and  codicil  that, 
That  Knowledge  may  starve  while  Law 

grows  fat ; 
For    there    never    was    pitcher    that 

would  n't  spill, 
And  there 's  always  a  flaw  in  a  donkey'a 

will ! 


ODE  FOR  A  SOCIAL  MEETING. 

WITH   SLIGHT   ALTERATIONS   BY  A  TEETOTALER. 

COME  !  fill  a  fresh  bumper,  for  why  should  we  go 

logwood 
While  the  nootar  still  reddens  our  cups  as  they  now  ? 

decoction 

Pour  out  the  rich  juicco  still  bright  with  the  sun, 

dye-stuff 
Till  o'er  the  brimmed  crystal  the  rubioo  shall  run. 

half-ripened  apples 

The  purplo  globed  oluotoro  their  life-dews  have  bled ; 

taste  sugar  of  lead 

How  sweet  is  the  breath  of  the  fragram-o  they  ohod  ! 

rank  poisons  wines  !  !  ! 

For  summer's  last  roooo  lie  hid  in  the  winos 

stable-boys  smoking  long-nines 

That  were  garnered  by  maidono  who  langhod  thro'  tho  i 

scowl  howl  scoff  sneer 

Then  a  smilo,  and  a  glaoo,  and  a  teast,  and  a  ohoor, 
strychnine  and  whiskey,  and  ratsbane  and  beer 

For  all  tho  good  wino,  and  wo  'vo  aom»  of  it  horo  1 
In  cellar,  in  pantry,  in  attic,  in  hall, 

Down,  down  with  the  tyrant  that  masters  us  nil  I 

Long  livo  tho  miy  ncrvaut  that  kugho  for  uo  all  I 


POEMS 


FROM   THE 


PROFESSOR  AT   THE   BREAKFAST   TABLE. 


1858  -  1859. 


UNDER  THE  VIOLETS. 

HER  hands  are  cold  ;  her  face  is  white  ; 
No  more  her  pulses  come  and  go  ; 

Her  eyes  are  shut  to  life  and  light ;  — 
Fold  the  white  vesture,  snow  on  snow, 
And  lay  her  where  the  violets  blow. 

But  not  beneath  a  graven  stone, 
To  plead  for  tears  with  alien  eyes  ; 

A  slender  cross  of  wood  alone 
Shall  say,  that  here  a  maiden  lies 
In  peace  beneath  the  peaceful  skies. 

And  gray  old  trees  of  hugest  limb 
Shall  wheel  their  circling   shadows 

round 

To  make  the  scorching  sunlight  dim 
That  drinks  the  greenness  from  the 

ground, 

And  drop  their  dead  leaves  on  her 
mound. 

When  o'er  their  boughs  the  squirrels 

run, 
And  through  their  leaves  the  robins 

call, 

And,  ripening  in  the  autumn  sun, 
The  acorns  and  the  chestnuts  fall, 
Doubt  not  that  she  will  heed  them  all. 


For  her  the  morning  choir  shall  sing 
Its  matins  from  the  branches  high, 

And  every  minstrel-voice  of  Spring, 
That  trills  beneath  the  April  sky, 
Shall  greet  her  with  its  earliest  cry. 

When,  turning  round  their  dial-track, 
Eastward  the   lengthening    shadows 

pass, 

Her  little  mourners,  clad  in  black, 
The    crickets,   sliding    through    the 

grass, 
Shall  pipe  for  her  an  evening  mass. 

At  last  the  rootlets  of  the  trees 

Shall  find  the  prison  where  she  lies, 

And  bear  the  buried  dust  they  seize 
In  leaves  and  blossoms  to  the  skies. 
So  may  the  soul  that  warmed  it  rise ! 

If  any,  born  of  kindlier  blood, 

Should  ask,  What  maiden  lies  below  ? 

Say  only  this :  A  tender  bud, 

That  tried  to  blossom  in  the  snow, 
Lies  withered  where  the  violets  blow. 


HYMN  OF  TRUST. 

O  LOVE  Divine,  that  stooped  to  share 
Our  sharpest  pang,  our  bitterest  tear, 


178   POEMS  FROM  THE  PROFESSOR  AT  THE  BREAKFAST  TABLE. 


On  Thee  we  cast  each  earth-born  care, 
We  smile  at  pain  while  Thou  art  near ! 

Though  long  the  weary  way  we  tread, 
And  sorrow  crown  each  lingering  year, 

No  path  we  shun,  no  darkness  dread, 
Our  hearts  still  whispering,  Thou  art 
near ! 

When  drooping  pleasure  turns  to  grief, 
And  trembling  faith  is  changed  to  fear, 

The  murmuring  wind,  the  quivering  leaf, 
Shall  softly  tell  us,  Thou  art  near  ! 

On  Thee  we  fling  our  burdening  woe, 
0  Love  Divine,  forever  dear, 

Content  to  suffer  while  we  know, 
Living  and  dying,  Thou  art  near  ! 


A  SUN-DAY    HYMN. 

LORD  of  all  being  !  throned  afar, 
Thy  glory  flames  from  sun  and  star; 
Centre  and  soul  of  every  sphere, 
Yet  to  each  loving  heart  how  near  ! 

Sun  of  our  life,  thy  quickening  ray 
Sheds  on  our  path  the  glow  of  day ; 
Star  of  our  hope,  thy  softened  light 
Cheers  the  long  watches  of  the  night. 

Our  midnight  is  thy  smile  withdrawn  ; 
Our  noontide  is  thy  gracious  dawn  ; 
Our  rainbow  arch  thy  mercy's  sign  ; 
All,  save  the  clouds  of  sin,  are  thine  ! 

Lord  of  all  life,  below,  above, 

Whose  light  is  truth,  whose  warmth  is 

love, 

Before  thy  ever-blazing  throne 
We  ask  no  lustre  of  our  own. 

Grant  us  thy  truth  to  make  us  free, 
And  kindling  hearts  that  burn  for  thee, 
Till  all  thy  living  altars  claim 
One  holy  light,  one  heavenly  flame  ! 


THE  CROOKED  FOOTPATH. 

AH,  here  it  is !  the  sliding  rail 
That    marks    the    old    remembered 

spot,  — 
The  gap  that  struck    our    school-boy 

trail,  — 
The  crooked  path  across  the  lot. 

It  left  the  road  by  school  and  church, 
A  pencilled  shadow,  nothing  more, 

That  parted  from  the  silver- birch 
And  ended  at  the  farm-house  door. 

No  line  or  compass  traced  its  plan  ; 

With  frequent  bends  to  left  or  right, 
In  aimless,  wayward  curves  it  ran, 

But  always  kept  the  door  in  sight 

The     gabled    porch,     with     woodbine 

green,  — 

The  broken  millstone  at  the  sill,  — 
Though  many  a  rood  might  stretch  be- 
tween, 
The  truant  child  could  see  them  still. 

No  rocks  across  the  pathway  lie,  — 
No  fallen  trunk  is  o'er  it  thrown,  — 

And  yet  it  winds,  we  know  not  why, 
And  turns  as  if  for  tree  or  stone. 

Perhaps  some  lover  trod  the  way 
With    shaking    knees    and    leaping 
heart,  — 

And  so  it  often  runs  astray 

With  sinuous  sweep  or  sudden  start. 

Or  one,  perchance,  with  clouded  brain 
From  some  unholy  banquet  reeled,  — 

And  since,  our  devious  steps  maintain 
His  track  across  the  trodden  field. 

Nay,  deem  not  thus,  —  no  earthborn  will 
Could  ever  trace  a  faultless  line ; 

Our  truest  steps  are  human  still,  — 
To  walk  unswerving  were  divine  ! 


IRIS,   HER  BOOK. 


179 


Truants  from  love,  we  dream  of  wrath ; — 
0,  rather  let  us  trust  the  more  ! 

Through  all  the  wanderings  of  the  path, 
"We  still  can  see  our  Father's  door ! 


IRIS,  HER  BOOK. 


'l  PEAY  thee  by  the  soul  of  her  that  bore 

thee, 
By  thine  own  sister's  spirit  I  implore 

thee, 
Deal  gently  with  the  leaves  that  lie  be- 

fore thee  ! 

For  Iris  had  no  mother  to  infold  her, 
Nor  ever  leaned  upon  a  sister's  shoulder, 
Telling  the  twilight  thoughts  that  Na- 
ture told  her. 

She  had  not  learned  the  mystery  of 

awaking 
Those  chorded  keys  that  soothe  a  sor- 

row's aching, 
Giving  the  dumb  heart  voice,  that  else 

were  breaking. 

Yet  lived,  wrought,  suffered.     Lo,  the 

pictured  token  ! 
Why  should  her  fleeting  day-dreams 

fade  unspoken, 
Like  daffodils  that  die  with  sheaths  un- 

broken ? 

She  knew  not  love,  yet  lived  in  maiden 

fancies,  — 
Walked  simply  clad,  a  queen  of  high 

romances, 
And  talked  strange  tongues  with  angels 

in  her  trances. 

Twin-souled  she  seemed,  a  twofold  na- 

ture wearing,  — 
Sometimes  a  flashing  falcon  in  her  dar- 

ing, 

Then  a  poor  mateless  dove  that  droops 
despairing. 


Questioning  all  things :  Why  her  Lord 

had  sent  her? 
What  were  these  torturing  gifts,   and 

wherefore  lent  her  ? 
Scornful  as  spirit  fallen,  its  own  tor* 

mentor. 

And  then  all  tears  and  anguish  :  Queen 
of  Heaven, 

Sweet  Saints,  and  Thou  by  mortal  sor- 
rows riven, 

Save  me  !  0,  save  me  !  Shall  I  die 
forgiven  ? 

And  then Ah,  God  !     But  nay,  it 

little  matters : 
Look  at  the  wasted  seeds  that  autumn 

scatters, 
The  myriad  germs  that  Nature  shapes 

and  shatters ! 


If  she  had Well !    She  longed,  and 

knew  not  wherefore. 
Had  the  world  nothing  she  might  live 

to  care  for? 
No  second  self  to  say  her  evening  prayer 

for? 


She  knew  the  marble  shapes  that  set 

N  l 

men  dreaming, 
Yet  with  her  shoulders  bare  and  tresses 

streaming 
Showed   not  unlovely  to    her    simple 

seeming. 

Vain  ?    Let  it  be  so  !     Nature  was  her 

teacher. 

What  if  a  lonely  and  unsistered  creature 
Loved  her  own  harmless  gift  of  pleasing 

feature, 

Saying,  unsaddened,  —  This  shall  soon 

be  faded, 
And  double-hued  the  shining    tresses 

braided, 


180   POEMS  FROM  THE  PROFESSOR  AT  THE  BREAKFAST  TABLE. 


And  all  the  sunlight  of  the  morning 
shaded  ? 

This  her  poor  book  is  full  of  sad- 
dest follies, 

Of  tearful  smiles  and  laughing  melan- 
cholies, 

With  summer  roses  twined  and  wintry 
hollies. 

In  the  strange  crossing  of  uncertain 
chances, 

Somewhere,  beneath  some  maiden's  tear- 
dimmed  glances 

May  fall  her  little  book  of  dreams  and 
fancies. 

Sweet  sister !      Iris,   who  shall  never 

name  thee, 
Trembling  for  fear  her  open  heart  may 

shame  thee, 
Speaks  from  this  vision -haunted  page 

to  claim  thee. 

Spare  her,  I  pray  thee  !     If  the  maid  is 

sleeping, 
Peace  with  her !  she  has  had  her  hour 

of  weeping. 
No  more  !  She  leaves  her  memory  in 

thy  keeping.  * 


ROBINSON  OF  LEYDEN. 

HE  sleeps  not  here  ;  in  hope  and  prayer 
His  wandering  flock  had  gone  before, 

But  he,  the  shepherd,  might  not  share 
Their  sorrows  on  the  wintry  shore. 

Before  the  Speedwell's  anchor  swung, 
Ere  yet    the    Mayflower's    sail   was 
spread, 

While  round  his  feet  the  Pilgrims  clung, 
The  pastor  spake,  and  thus  he  said :  — 

"Men,  brethren,  sisters,  children  dear! 
God  calls  you  hence  from  over  sea  ; 


Ye  may  not  build  by  Haerlem  Meer, 
Nor  yet  along  the  Zuyder-Zee. 

"Ye  go  to  bear  the  saving  word 
To  tribes  unnamed  and  shores  untrod: 

Heed  well  the  lessons  ye  have  heard 
From  those  old  teachers  taught  of  God. 

"Yet  think  not  unto  them  was  lent 
All  light  for  all  the  coming  days, 

And  Heaven's  eternal  wisdom  spent 
In  making  straight  the  ancient  ways  : 

"The  living  fountain  overflows 
For  every  flock,  for  every  lamb, 

Nor  heeds,  though  angry  creeds  oppose 
With  Luther's  dike  or  Calvin's  dam." 

He  spake  :  with  lingering,  long  embrace, 
With  tears  of  love  and  partings  fond, 

They  floated  down  the  creeping  Maas, 
Along  the  isle  of  Ysselmond. 

They  passed  the  frowning  towers  of  Briel, 
The  "Hook  of  Holland's"  shelf  of 
sand, 

And  grated  soon  with  lifting  keel 
The  sullen  shores  of  Fatherland. 

No  home  for  these !  —  too  well  they  knew 
The  mitred  king  behind  the  throne ; — 

The  sails  were  set,  the  pennons  flew, 
And  westward  ho  !   for  worlds  un- 
known. 

—  And  these  were  they  who  gave  us 
birth, 

The  Pilgrims  of  the  sunset  wave, 
Who  won  for  us  this  virgin  earth, 

And  freedom  with  the  soil  they  gave- 

The  pastor  slumbers  by  the  Rhine,  — 
In  alien  earth  the  exiles  lie,  — 

Their  nameless  graves  our  holiest  shrine, 
His  words  our  noblest  battle-cry ! 


ST.   ANTHONY  THE   EEFOKMEK.  —  OPENING  OF  THE   PIANO.      181 


Still  cry  them,  and  the  world  shall  hear, 
Ye  dwellers  by  the  storm-swept  sea ! 

Ye  have  not  built  by  Haerlem  Meer, 
Nor  on  the  land-locked  Zuyder-Zee ! 


ST.  ANTHONY  THE  REFORMER. 

HIS  TEMPTATION. 

No  fear  lest  praise  should  make  us  proud ! 

We  know  how  cheaply  that  is  won ; 
The  idle  homage  of  the  crowd 

Is  proof  of  tasks  as  idly  done. 

A  surface-smile  may  pay  the  toil 

That    follows    still    the    conquering 

Eight, 

With  soft,  white  hands  to  dress  the  spoil 
That  sun-browned  valor  clutched  in 
fight. 

Sing  the  sweet  song  of  other  days, 

Serenely  placid,  safely  true, 
And  o'er  the  present's  parching  ways 

The  verse  distils  like  evening  dew. 

But  speak  in  words  of  living  power,  — 
They  fall  like  drops  of  scalding  rain 

That  plashed  before  the  burning  shower 
Swept  o'er  the  cities  of  the  plain  ! 

Then  scowling  Hate  turns  deadly  pale,  — 
Then  Passion's  half-coiled  adders 
spring, 

And,  smitten  through  their  leprous  mail, 
Strike  right  and  left  in  hope  to  sting. 

If  thou,  unmoved  by  poisoning  wrath, 
Thy  feet  on  earth,  thy  heart  above, 

Canst  walk  in  peace  thy  kingly  path, 
Unchanged    in    trust,   unchilled    in 
love,  — 

Too  kind  for  bitter  words  to  grieve, 
Too  firm  for  clamor  to  dismay, 

When  Faith  forbids  thee  to  believe, 
And  Meekness  calls  to  disobey,  — 


Ah,  then  beware  of  mortal  pride  ! 

The  smiling  pride  that  calmly  scorns 
Those  foolish  fingers,  crimson  dyed 

In  laboring  on  thy  crown  of  thorns  ! 


THE  OPENING  OF  THE  PIANO. 

IN  the  little  southern  parlor  of  the  house 

you  may  have  seen 
With  the  gambrel-roof,  and  the  gable 

looking  westward  to  the  green, 
At  the  side  toward  the  sunset,  with  the 

window  on  its  right, 
Stood  the   London-made    piano   I   am 

dreaming  of  to-night ! 

Ah  me  !  how  I  remember  the  evening 

when  it  came ! 
What  a  cry  of  eager  voices,  what  a  group 

of  cheeks  in  flame, 
When  the  wondrous  box  was  opened 

that  had  come  from  over  seas, 
With  its  smell  of  mastic-varnish  and 

its  flash  of  ivory  keys ! 

Then  the  children  all  grew  fretful  in  the 

restlessness  of  joy ; 
For  the  boy  would  push  his  sister,  and 

the  sister  crowd  the  boy, 
Till  the  father  asked  for  quiet  in  his 

grave  paternal  way, 
But  the  mother  hushed  the  tumult  with 

the  words,  "Now,  Mary,  play." 

For  the  dear  soul  knew  that  music  was 

a  very  sovereign  balm ; 
She  had  sprinkled  it  over  Sorrow  and 

seen  its  brow  grow  calm, 
In  the  days  of  slender  harpsichords  with 

tapping  tinkling  quills, 
Or  carolling  to  her  spinet  with  its  thin 

metallic  thrills. 

So  Mary,  the  household  minstrel,  who 
always  loved  to  please, 


182   POEMS  FROM  THE  PROFESSOR  AT  THE  BREAKFAST  TABLE. 


Sat  down  to  the  new  "dementi,"  and 
struck  the  glittering  keys. 

Hushed  were  the  children's  voices,  and 
every  eye  grew  dim, 

As,  floating  from  lip  and  finger,  arose 
the  "Vesper  Hymn." 

—  Catharine,  child  of  a  neighbor,  curly 
and  rosy-red, 

(Wedded  since,  and  a  widow,  —  some- 
thing like  ten  years  dead,) 

Hearing  a  gush  of  music  such  as  none 
before, 

Steals  from  her  mother's  chamber  and 
peeps  at  the  open  door. 

Just  as  the  "Jubilate"  in  threaded 
whisper  dies, 

"Open  it!  open  it,  lady! "the  little 
maiden  cries, 

(For  she  thought 't  was  a  singing  crea- 
ture caged  in  a  box  she  heard,) 

"  Open  it !  open  it,  lady  !  and  let  me 
see  the  bird/" 


MIDSUMMER. 

HERE  !  sweep  these  foolish  leaves  away, 
I  will  not  crush  my  brains  to-day  ! 
Look  !  are  the  southern  curtains  drawn  ? 
Fetch  me  a  fan,  and  so  begone  ! 

Not  that,  —  the  palm-tree's  rustling  leaf 
Brought  from  a  parching  coral-reef ! 
Its  breath  is  heated  ;  —  I  would  swing 
The  broad  gray  plumes,  —  the  eagle's 
wing. 

I  hate  these  roses'  feverish  blood  !  — 
Pluck  me  a  half-blown  lily-bud, 
A  long-stemmed  lily  from  the  lake, 
Cold  as  a  coiling  water-snake. 

Rain  me  sweet  odors  on  the  air, 
And  wheel  me  up  my  Indian  chair, 


And  spread  some  book  not  overwise 
Flat  out  before  my  sleepy  eyes. 

—  Who  knows  it  not,  —  this  dead  recoil 
Of  weary  fibres  stretched  with  toil,  — 
The  pulse  that  flutters  faint  and  low 
When  Summer's  seething  breezes  blow  ! 

0  Nature  !  bare  thy  loving  breast, 
And  give  thy  child  one  hour  of  rest,  — 
One  little  hour  to  lie  unseen 
Beneath  thy  scarf  of  leafy  green  ! 

So,  curtained  by  a  singing  pine, 

Its  murmuring  voice  shall  blend  with 

mine, 

Till,  lost  in  dreams,  my  faltering  lay 
In  sweeter  music  dies  away. 


DE  SAUTY. 

AN  ELECTRO-CHEMICAL  ECLOGUE. 

Professor.  Blue-Nose. 

PROFESSOR. 

TELL  me,  0  Provincial !  speak,  Ceruleo- 

Nasal ! 
Lives  there  one  De  Sauty  extant  now 

among  you, 
Whispering    Boanerges,  son    of   silent 

thunder, 
Holding  talk  with  nations  ? 

Is  there  a  De  Sauty  ambulant  on  Tellus, 
Bifid-cleft    like    mortals,    dormient    in 

nightcap, 

Having   sight,  smell,   hearing,  food-re- 
ceiving feature 
Three  times  daily  patent  ? 

Breathes  there  such  a  being,  0  Ceruleo- 

Nasal? 
Or  is  he  a  myihus,  —  ancient  word  for 

"humbug,"  — 


DE  SAUTY. 


183 


Such  as  Livy  told  about  the  wolf  that 

wet-nursed 
Romulus  and  Reinus  ? 


"W  as  he  born  of  woman,  this  alleged  De 

Sauty  ? 

Or  a  living  product  of  galvanic  action, 
Like  the  acarus  bred  in  Crosse's  flint-so- 
lution ? 
Speak,  thou  Cyano-Rhinal ! 

BLUE-NOSE. 

Many   things   thou   askest,  jackknife- 

bearing  stranger, 
Much-conjecturing    mortal,    pork-and- 

treacle-waster ! 
Pretermit  thy  whittling,  wheel  thine 

ear-flap  toward  me, 
Thou  shalt  hear  them  answered. 

When    the    charge    galvanic    tingled 

through  the  cable, 

At  the  polar  focus  of  the  wire  electric 
Suddenly  appeared  a  white-faced  man 

among  us  : 
Called  himself  "Ds  SAUTY." 

As  the  small  opossum  held  in  pouch 

maternal 
Grasps  the  nutrient  organ  whence  the 

term  mammalia, 
So  the  unknown  stranger  held  the  wire 

electric, 
Sucking  in  the  current. 

When  the  current  strengthened,  bloomed 
the  pale-faced  stranger,  — 

Took  no  drink  nor  victual,  yet  grew  fat 
and  rosy,  — 


And  from  time  to  time,  in  sharp  articu- 
lation, 
Said,  "All  right  I  DE  SAUTY." 

From  the  lonely  station  passed  the  utter- 
ance, spreading 

Through  the  pines  and  hemlocks  to  the 
groves  of  steeples, 

Till  the  land  was  filled  with  loud  rever- 
berations 
Of  "All  right!    DE  SAUTY." 

When   the  current  slackened,  drooped 

the  mystic  stranger,  — 
Faded,  faded,  faded,  as  the  stream  grew 

weaker,  — 
Wasted  to  a  shadow,  with  a  hartshorn 

odor 
Of  disintegration. 

Drops  of  deliquescence  glistened  on  his 

forehead, 
Whitened  round  his  feet  the  dust  of 

efflorescence, 
Till  one  Monday  morning,  when  the  flow 

suspended, 
There  was  no  De  Sauty. 

Nothing  but  a  cloud  of  elements  organic, 
C.  0.  H.  N.  Feirum,  Chlor.  Flu.  Sil. 

Potassa, 

Calc.    Sod.    Phosph.    Mag.     Sulphur, 
Mang.  (?)  Alumin.  (?)  Cuprum,  (?) 
Such  as  man  is  made  of. 

Born  of  stream  galvanic,  with  it  he  had 

perished  ! 
There  is  no  De  Sauty  now  there  is  no 

current ! 
Give  us  a  new  cable,  then  again  we  '11 

hear  him 
Cry,  "All  right!  DE  SAUTY." 


POEMS 


FROM  THE 


POET  AT  THE  BREAKFAST  TABLE. 


1871-1873. 


HOMESICK  IN  HEAVEN. 

THE  DIVINE  VOICE. 

Go  seek  thiue  earth-born  sisters,  —  thus 

the  Voice 
That  all  obey,  —  the  sad  and  silent 

three ; 
These  only,  while  the  hosts  of  Heaven 

rejoice, 

Smile  never  :   ask  them  what  their 
sorrows  be  : 

And  when  the  secret  of  their  griefs  they 

tell, 

Look  on  them  with  thy  mild,  half- 
human  eyes ; 
Say  what  thou  wast  on  earth ;   thou 

knowest  well ; 
So  shall  they  cease  from  unavailing 


THE  ANGEL. 

—  Why  thus,  apart,  — the  swift-winged 

herald  spake,  —  • 

Sit  ye  with  silent  lips  and  unstrung 

lyres 
While  the  trisagion's  blending  chords 

awake 
In  shouts  of  joy  from  all  the  heavenly 

choirs  ? 

THE  FIRST  SPIRIT. 

—  Chide  not  thy  sisters,  —  thus  the  an- 

swer came ;  — 


Children  of  earth,  our  half-weaned 

nature  clings 

To  earth's  fond  memories,  and  her  whis- 
pered name 

Untunes  our  quivering  lips,  our  sad- 
dened strings ; 

For  there  we  loved,  and  where  we  love 

is  home, 
Home  that  our  feet  may  leave,  but  not 

our  hearts, 
Though  o'er  us  shine  the  jasper-lighted 

dome :  — 

The  chain  may  lengthen,  but  it  never 
parts  ! 

Sometimes  a  sunlit  sphere  comes  rolling 

by, 

And  then  we  softly  whisper,  —  can  it 

be? 
And  leaning  toward  the  silvery  orb,  we 

try 
To  hear  the  music  of  its  murmuring 

sea; 

To    catch,    perchance,    some    Sashing 

glimpse  of  green, 
Or  breathe  some  wild-wood  fragrance, 

wafted  through 
The  opening  gates  of  pearly  that  fold 

between 

The  blindingsplendorsand  thechange- 
less  blue. 


186    POEMS  FROM  THE  POET  AT  THE  BKEAKFAST  TABLE. 


THE  ANGEL. 

• —  Nay,  sister,  nay  !  a  single  healing  leaf 
Plucked  from  the  bough  of  yon  twelve- 
fruited  tree, 
Would  soothe  such  anguish,  —  deeper 

stabbing  grief 
Has  pierced  thy  throbbing  heart  — 

THE  FIRST  SPIRIT. 

—  Ah,  woe  is  me  ! 

I  from  my  clinging  babe  was  rudely 

torn ; 
His    tender   lips   a    loveless    bosom 

pressed ; 

Can  I  forget  him  in  my  life  new  born  ? 
O  that  my  darling  lay  upon  my  breast ! 

THE  ANGEL. 

•— And  thou  ?  — 

THE  SECOND   SPIRIT. 

I  was  a  fair  and  youthful  bride, 
The  kiss  of  love  still  burns  upon  my 

cheek, 
He  whom  I  worshipped,  ever  at  my 

side,  — 

Him  through  the  spirit  realm  in  vain 
I  scclc 

Sweet  faces  turn  their  beaming  eyes  on 

mine ; 
Ah  !  not  in  these  the  wished-for  look 

I  read; 
Still  for  that  one  dear  human  smile  I 

pine ; 

Thou  and  none  other/ — is  the  lover's 
creed. 

THE  ANGEL. 

—  And  whence  thy  sadness  in  a  world 

of  bliss 
Where   never    parting    comes,    nor 

mourner's  tear  ? 

Art  thou,  too,  dreaming  of  a  mortal's  kiss 
Amid  the  seraphs  of  the  heavenly 
sphere  ? 


THE   THIRD    SPIRIT. 

—  Nay,  tax  not  me  with  passion's  wast- 

ing fire  ; 

When  the  swift  message  set  my  spirit 

free, 

Blind,  helpless,  lone,   I  left  my  gray- 
haired  sire ; 

My  friends  were  many,  he  had  none 
save  me. 

I  left  him,   orphaned,  in  the  starless 

night ; 
Alas,  for  him  no  cheerful  morning's 

dawn  ! 
I  wear  the  ransomed  spirit's  robe  of 

white, 

Yet  still  I  hear  him  moaning,  She  is 
gone/ 

THE  ANGEL. 

—  Ye  know  me  not,  sweet  sisters  ?  —  All 

in  vain 
Ye  seek  your  lost  ones  in  the  shapes 

they  wore; 
The  flower  once  opened  may  not  bud 

again, 
The  fruit  once  fallen  finds  the  stem 

no  more. 


Child,    lover,    sire,  —  yea,    all    things 

loved  below,  — 
Fair  pictures  damasked  on  a  vapor's 

fold,  — 
Fade  like  the  roseate  flush,  the  golden 

glow, 

When  the  bright  curtain  of  the  day 
is  rolled. 

/  was  the  babe  that  slumbered  on  thy 
breast. 

—  And,  sister,  mine  the  lips  that  called 

thee  bride. 

—  Mine  were  the  silvered  locks  thy  hand 

caressed, 

That  faithful  hand,  my  faltering  foot- 
step's guide  ! 


FANTASIA. — AUNT   TABITHA. 


187 


Each   changing  form,    frail  vesture   of 

decay, 
The  soul  unclad  forgets  it  once  hath 

worn, 

Stained  with  the  travel  of  the  weary  day, 
And  shamed  with  rents  from  every 
wayside  thorn. 

To  lie,  an  infant,  in  thy  fond  embrace, — 
To  come  with  lov«'s  warm  kisses  back 

to  thee,  — 

To  show  thine  eyes  ^hy  gray-haired  fa- 
ther's face, 

Not  Heaven  itself  could  grant ;  this 
may  not  be  ! 

Then   spread  your  folded  wings,    and 

leave  to  earth 
The    dust    once  breathing   ye   have 

mourned  so  long, 
Till  Love,  new  risen,  owns  his  heavenly 

birth, 

And  sorrow's  discords  sweeten   into 
song ! 


FANTASIA. 

THE  YOUNG   GIRI/S   POEM. 

Kiss  mine  eyelids,  beauteous  Morn, 
Blushing  into  life  new-born  ! 
Lend  me  violets  for  my  hair, 
And  thy  russet  robe  to  wear, 
And  thy  ring  of  rosiest  hue 
Set  in  drops  of  diamond  dew  ! 

Kiss  my  cheek,  thou  noontide  ray, 
From  my  Love  so  far  away  ! 
Let  thy  splendor  streaming  down 
Turn  its  pallid  lilies  brown, 
Till  its  darkening  shades  reveal 
Where  his  passion  pressed  its  seal .' 

Kiss  my  lips,  thou  Lord  of  light, 
Kiss  my  lips  a  soft  good-night ! 


Westward  sinks  thy  golden  car  ; 
Leave  me  but  the  evening  star, 
And  my  solace  that  shall  be, 
Borrowing  all  its  light  from  the*  1 


AUNT  TABITHA. 

THE  YOUNG   GIRL'S   POEM. 

WHATEVER  I  do,  and  whatever  I  say, 
Aunt  Tabitha  tells  me  that  isn't  the 

way; 

When  she  was  a  girl  (forty  summers  ago) 
Aunt  Tabitha  tells  me  they  never  did  so. 

Dear  aunt  !     If  I  only  would  take  her 

advice  ! 
But  I  like  my  own  way,  and  I  find  it  so 

nice  ! 
And  besides,  I  forget  half  the  things  I 

am  told  ; 
But  they  all  will  come  back  to  me  — 

when  I  am  old. 

If  a  youth  passes  by,  it  may  happen,  no 

doubt, 
He  may  chance  to  look  in  as  I  chance  to 

look  out ; 
She  would  never  endure  an  impertinent 

stare,  — 
It  is  horrid,  she  says,  and  I  must  n't  sit 

there. 

A  walk  in  the  moonlight  has  pleasures, 

I  own, 
But  it  is  n't  quite  safe  to  be  walking 

alone ; 
So  I  take  a  lad's  arm,  — just  for  safety, 

you  know,  — 
But  Aunt  Tabitha  tells  me  they  did  n't 

do  so. 

How  wicked  we  are,  and  how  good  they 
were  then  ! 

They  kept  at  arm's  length  those  detesta- 
ble men ; 


188 


POEMS  FROM  THE  POET  AT  THE  BREAKFAST  TABLE. 


What  an  era  of  virtue  she  lived  in  !  — 

But  stay  — 
Were  the  men  all  such  rogues  in  Aunt 

Tabitha's  day  ? 

If  the  men  were  so  wicked,  I  '11  ask  my 
papa 

How  he  dared  to  propose  to  my  darling 
mamma ; 

Was  he  like  the  rest  of  them  ?  Good- 
ness !  Who  knows  ? 

And  what  shall  I  say,  if  a  wretch  should 
propose  ? 

I  am  thinking  if  Aunt  knew  so  little  of 

sin, 
What  a  wonder  Aunt  Tabitha's  aunt 

must  have  been ! 
And  her  grand-aunt  —  it  scares  me  — 

how  shockingly  sad 
That  we  girls  of  to-day  are  so  frightfully 

bad! 

A  martyr  will  save  us,  and  nothing  else 

can  ; 
Let  me  perish  —  to  rescue  some  wretched 

young  man ! 

Though  when  to  the  altar  a  victim  I  go, 
Aunt  Tabitha  '11  tell  me  she  never  did  so ! 


WIND-CLOUDS  AND  STAR-DRIFTS. 

FROM  THE  YOUNG  ASTRONOMER'S  POEM. 

I. 

AMBITION. 

ANOTHER  clouded  night ;  the  stars  are 

hid, 
The  orb  that  waits  my  search  is  hid  with 

them. 
Patience !      Why  grudge    an    hour,    a 

month,  a  year, 
To  plant  my  ladder  and  to  gain  the 

round 


That  leads  my  footsteps  to  the  heaven 

of  fame, 
Where  waits  the  wreath  my  sleepless 

midnights  won  ? 
Not  the  stained  laurel  such  as  heroes 

wear 

That  withers  when  some  stronger  con- 
queror's heel 
Treads  down  their  shrivelling  trophies 

in  the  dust ; 
But   the  fair   garland  whose  undying 

green 
Not  time  can  change,  nor  wrath  of  gods 

or  men ! 

With  quickened  heart-beats  I  shall 

hear  the  tongues 
That  speak  my  praise ;  but  better  far 

the  sense 

That  in  the  unshaped  ages,  buried  deep 
In  the  dark  mines  of  unaccomplished 

time 
Yet  to  be  stamped  with  morning's  royal 

die 
And  coined  in  golden  days,  —  in  those 

dim  years 
I  shall  be  reckoned  with  the  undying 

•  dead, 

My  name  emblazoned  on  the  fiery  arch, 
Unfading  till  the  stars  themselves  shall 

fade. 
Then,  as  they  call  the  roll  of  shining 

worlds, 

Sages  of  race  unborn  in  accents  new 
Shall  count  me  with  the  Olympian  ones 

of  old, 

Whose  glories  kindle  through  the  mid- 
night sky  : 
Here  glows  the  God  of  Battles ;   this 

recalls 

The  Lord  of  Ocean,  and  yon  far-off  sphere 
The  Sire  of  Him  who  gave  his  ancient 

name 
To  the  dim  planet  with  the  wondrous 

rings; 


WIND-CLOUDS  AND  STAR-DRIFTS. 


189 


Hfere  flames  the  Queen  of  Beauty's  silver 

lamp, 
And  there  the  moon -girt  orb  of  mighty 

Jove ; 
But  this,  unseen  through  all  earth's  aeons 

past, 

A  youth  who  watched  beneath  the  west- 
ern star 
Sought    in   the  darkness,    found,   and 

shewed  to  men  ; 
Linked  with  his  name  thenceforth  and 

evermore  ! 

So  shall  that  name  be  syllabled  anew 
In  all  the  tongues  of  all  the  tribes  of 

men : 
I  that  have  been  through  immemorial' 

years 

Dust  in  the  dust  of  my  forgotten  time 
Shall  live  in  accents  shaped  of  blood- 

wanu  breath, 
Yea,   rise  in  mortal  semblance,  newly 

born 

In  shining  stone,  in  undecaying  bronze, 
And  stand  on  high,  and  look  serenely 

down 
On  the  new  race  that  calls  the  earth  its 


Is  this  a  cloud,  that,  blown  athwart 
my  soul, 

Wears  a  false  seeming  of  the  pearly  stain 

Where  worlds  beyond  the  world  their 
mingling  rays 

Blend  in  soft  white,  —  a  cloud  that,  born 
of  earth, 

Would  cheat  the  soul  that  looks  for  light 
from  heaven  ? 

Must  every  coral-insect  leave  his  sign 

On  each  poor  grain  he  lent  to  build  the 
reef, 

As  Babel's  builders  stamped  their  sun- 
burnt clay, 

Or  deem  his  patient  service  all  in  vain? 

What  if  another  sit  beneath  the  shade 

Of  the  broad  elm  I  planted  by  the  way,  — 


What  if  another  heed  the  beacon  light 

I  set  upon  the  rock  that  wrecked  my 
keel,  — 

Have  I  not  done  my  task  and  served  my 
kind? 

Nay,  rather  act  thy  part,  unnamed,  un- 
known, 

And  let  Fame  blow  her  trumpet  through 
the  world 

With  noisy  wind  to  swell  a  fool's  re- 
nown, 

Joined  with  some  truth  he  stumbled 
blindly  o'er, 

Or  coupled  with  some  single  shining 
deed 

That  in  the  great  account  of  all  his 
days 

Will  stand  alone  upon  the  bankrupt 
sheet 

His  pitying  angel  shows  the  clerk  of 
Heaven. 

The  noblest  service  comes  from  nameless 
hands, 

And  the  best  servant  does  his  work  un- 


Who  found  the  seeds  of  fire  and  made 

them  shoot, 
Fed  by  his  breath,  in  buds  and  flowers 

of  flame  ? 

Who  forged  in  roaring  flames  the  pon- 
derous stone, 
And  shaped  the  moulded  metal  to  his 

need  ? 
Who  gave  the  dragging  car  its  rolling 

wheel, 
And  tamed  the  steed  that  whirls  its 

circling  round  ? 
All  these  have  left  their  work  and  not 

their  names,  — 
Why  should  I  murmur  at  a  fate  like 

theirs  ? 
This  is  the  heavenly  light ;  the  pearly 

stain 
Was  but  a  wind-cloud  drifting  o'er  the 

stare  J 


190    POEMS  FKOM  THE  POET  AT  THE  BREAKFAST  TABLE. 


II. 

REGRETS. 

BRIEF  glimpses  of  the  bright  celestial 

spheres, 

Fals*.  lights,  false  shadows,  vague,  un- 
certain gleams, 
Pale  vaporous  mists,  wan  streaks  of  lurid 

flame, 
The    climbing    of   the    upward-sailing 

cloud, 
The  sinking  of  the   downward-falling 

star,  — 
All  these  are  pictures  of  the  changing 

moods 
Borne  through  the  midnight  stillness  of 

my  soul. 

Here  am   I,  bound  upon  this  pillared 

rock, 

Prey  to  the  vulture  of  a  vast  desire 
That  feeds  upon  my  life.      I  burst  my 

bands 
And  steal  a  moment's  freedom  from  the 

beak, 
The  clinging  talons  and  the  shadowing 

plumes ; 
Then  comes  the  false  enchantress,  with 

her  song ; 
"  Thou  wouldst  not  lay  thy  forehead  in 

the  dust 
Like  the  base  herd  that  feeds  and  breeds 

and  dies  ! 
Lo,  the  fair  garlands  that  I  weave  for 

thee, 

Unchanging  as  the  belt  Orion  wears, 
Bright  as  the  jewels  of  the  seven-starred 

Crown, 

The  spangled  stream  of  Berenice's  hair  ! " 
And  so  she  twines  the  fetters  with  the 

flowers 
Around  my  yielding  limbs,  and  the  fierce 

bird 
Stoops  to  his  quarry,  —  then  to  feed  his 

rage 


Of  ravening  hunger  I  must  drain  mj 

blood 
And  let  the  dew-drenched,  poison-breed' 

ing  night 
Steal  all  the  freshness  from  my  fading 

cheek, 
And  leave  its  shadows  round  my  cav- 

erned  eyes. 

All  for  a  line  in  some  unheeded  scroll ; 
All   for  a  stone   that   tells   to  gaping 

clowns, 
"Here  lies  a  restless  wretch  beneath  a 

clod 
Where  squats  the  jealous  nightmare  men 

call  Fame  ! " 

I  marvel  not  at  him  who  scorns  his 
kind 

And  thinks  not  sadly  of  the  time  fore- 
told 

"When  the  old  hulk  we  tread  shall  be  a 
wreck, 

A  slag,  a  cinder  drifting  through  the 
sky 

Without  its  crew  of  fools  !  We  live  too 
long 

And  even  so  are  not  content  to  die, 


bones 
With  stones  that  stand  like  beggars  by 

the  road 
And  show  death's  grievous  wound  and 

ask  for  tears  ; 
Write  our  great  books  to  teach  men  who 

we  are, 
Sing  our  fine  songs  that  tell  in  artful 

phrase 
The  secrets  of  our  lives,  and  plead  and 

pray 

For  alms  of  memory  with  the  after  time, 
Those  few  swift  seasons  while  the  earth 

shall  wear 

Its  leafy  summers,  ere  its  core  grows  cold 
And  the  moist  life  of  all  that  breathes 

shall  die ; 


WIND-CLOUDS   AND   STAK-DRIFTS. 


191 


Or  as  the  new-born  seer,  perchance  more 

wise, 
"Would  have  us  deem,  before  its  growing 

mass, 

Pelted  with  star-dust,  stoned  with  me- 
teor-balls, 

Heats  like  a  hammered  anvil,  till  at  last 
Man  and  his  works  and  all  that  stirred 

itself 

Of  its  own  motion,  in  the  fiery  glow 
Turns  to  a  flaming  vapor,  and  our  orb 
Shines  a  new  sun  for  earths  that  shall  be 
born. 


I  am  as  old  as  Egypt  to  myself, 
Brother  to  them  that  squared  the  pyra- 
mids 
By  the  same  stars  I  watch.     I  read  the 


Where  every  letter  is  a  glittering  world, 

With  them  who  looked  from  Shinar's 
clay -built  towers, 

Ere  yet  the  wanderer  of  the  Midland 
sea 

Had  missed  the  fallen  sister  of  the  seven. 

I  dwell  in  spaces  vague,  remote,  un- 
known, 

Save  to  the  silent  few,  who,  leaving 
earth, 

Quit  all  communion  with  their  living 
time. 

I  lose  myself  in  that  ethereal  void, 

Till  I  have  tired  my  wings  and  long  to 
fill 

My  breast  with  denser  air,  to  stand,  to 
walk 

With  eyes  not  raised  above  my  fellow- 
men. 

Sick  of  my  unwalled,  solitary  realm, 

I  ask  to  change  the  myriad  lifeless 
worlds 

I  visit  as  mine  own  for  one  poor  patch 

Of  this  dull  spheroid  and  a  little  breath 

To  shape  in  word  or  deed  to  serve  my 
kind. 


Was  ever  giant's  dungeon  dug  so  deep, 
Was  ever  tyrant's  fetter  forged  so  strong, 
Was  e'er  such  deadly  poison  in  tht 

draught 
The  false  wife  mingles  for  the  trusting 

fool, 

As  he  whose  \villing  victim  is  himself, 
Digs,   forges,  mingles,  for  his  captive 

soul? 

III. 

SYMPATHIES. 

THE  snows  that  glittered  on  the  disk  of 

Mars 

Have  melted,  and  the  planet's  fiery  orb 
Rolls  in  the  crimson  summer  of  its  year  ; 
But  what  to  me  the  summer  or  the  snow 
Of  worlds  that  throb  with  life  in  forms 

unknown, 
If  life  indeed  be  theirs ;    I   heed  not 

these. 

My  heart  is  simply  human  ;  all  my  care 
For  them  whose  dust  is  fashioned  like 

mine  own  ; 
These  ache  with  cold  and  hunger,  live 

in  pain, 
And  shake  with  fear  of  worlds  more  full 

of  woe  ; 
There  may  be  others  worthier  of  my 

love, 
But  such  I  know  not  save  through  these 

I  know. 


There  are  two  veils  of  language,  hid  be- 
neath 

Whose  sheltering  folds,  we  dare  to  be 
ourselves ; 

And  not  that  other  self  which  nods  and 
smiles 

And  babbles  in  our  name ;  the  one  is 
Prayer, 

Lending  its  licensed  freedom  to  the 
tongue 


192    POEMS  FKOM  THE  POET  AT  THE  BREAKFAST  TABLE. 


That  tells  our  sorrows  and  our  sins  to 

Heaven  ; 
The  other,  Verse,  that  throws  its  spangled 

web 
Around  our  naked  speech  and  makes  it 

bold. 
I,  whose  best  prayer  is  silence  ;  sitting 

dumb 
In  the  great  temple  where   I   nightly 

serve 
Him  who  is  throned  in  light,  have  dared 

to  claim 
The  poet's  franchise,  though  I  may  not 

hope 
To  wear  his  garland  ;    hear  me  while  I 

tell 

My  story  in  such  form  as  poets  use, 
But  breathed  in  fitful  whispers,  as  the 

wind 
Sighs  and  then   slumbers,   wakes  and 

sighs  again. 

Thou  Vision,  floating  in  the  breathless 

air 

Between  me  and  the  fairest  of  the  stars, 
I  tell  my  lonely  thoughts  as  unto  thee. 
Look  not  for  marvels  of  the  scholar's  pen 
In  iny  rude  measure  ;  I  can  only  show 
A  slender-margined,  unillumined  page, 
And  trust  its  meaning  to  the  flattering 

eye 
That  reads  it  in  the  gracious  light  of 

love. 
Ah,    wouldst    thou    clothe    thyself   in 

breathing  shape 
And  nestle  at  my  side,  my  voice  should 

lend 
Whate'er  my  verse  may  lack  of  tender 

rhythm 
To  make  thee  listen. 

I  have  stood  entranced 
When,  with  her  fingers  wandering  o'er 

the  keys, 
The  white  enchantress  with  the  golden 

hair 


Breathed  all  her  soul  through  some  un- 
valued rhyme  ; 

Some  flower  of  song  that  long  had  lost 
its  bloom  ; 

Lo  !   its  dead   summer  kindled  as  she 
sang ! 

The  sweet  contralto,  like  the  ringdove's 
coo, 

Thrilled  it  with  brooding,  fond,  caress- 
ing tones, 

And  the  pale  minstrel's  passion  lived 
again, 

Tearful  and  trembling  as  a  dewy  rose 

The  wind  has  shaken  till  it  fills  the  air 

With  light  and  fragrance.     Such  the 
wondrous  charm 

A  song  can  borrow  when  the  bosom 
throbs 

That  lends  it  breath. 

So  from  the  poet's  lips 

His  verse  sounds  doubly  sweet,  for  none 
like  him 

Feels  every  cadence   of   its    wave-like 
flow  ; 

He  lives  the  passion  over,  while  he  reads, 

That  shook  him  as  he  sang  his  lofty 
strain, 

And  pours  his  life  through  each  resound- 
ing line, 

As  ocean,  when  the  stormy  winds  are 
hushed, 

Still  rolls  and  thunders  through  his  bil- 
lowy caves. 


IV. 

MASTER  AND  SCHOLAR. 

LET  me  retrace  the  record  of  the  years 
That  made  me  what  I  am.     A  man  most 

wise, 
But  overworn  with  toil  and  bent  with 

age, 
Sought  me  to  be  his  scholar,  —  me,  run 

wild 


WIND-CLOUDS   AND   STAR-DRIFTS. 


193 


From  books  and  teachers,  —  kindled  in 

my  soul 
The  love  of  knowledge  ;   led  me  to  his 

tower, 
Showed  me  the  wonders  of  the  midnight 


His  hollow  sceptre  ruled,  or  seemed  to 

rule, 
Taught  me  the  mighty  secrets  of  the 


Trained  me  to  find  the  glimmering  specks 

of  light 
Beyond  the  unaided  sense,  and  on  my 

chart 

To  string  them  one  by  one,  in  order  due, 
As  on  a  rosary  a  saint  his  beads. 
I  was  his  only  scholar  ;  I  became 
The  echo  to  his  thought ;  whate'er  he 

knew 
"Was  mine  for  asking ;  so  from  year  to 

year 
We  wrought  together,  till  there  came  a 

time 
When  I,  the  learner,  was   the  master 

half 

Of   the   twinned  being    in   the  dome- 
crowned  tower. 

Minds  roll  in  paths  "Hke  planets ;  they 

revolve 

This  in  a  larger,  that  a  narrower  ring, 
But  round  they  come  at  last  to  that  same 

phase, 
That    selfsame    light  and   shade  they 

showed  before. 
I  learned  his  annual  and  his  monthly 

tale, 

His  weekly  axiom  and  his  daily  phrase, 
I  felt  them  coining  in  the  laden  air, 
And  watched  them  laboring  up  to  vocal 

breath, 
Even  as  the  first-born  at  his  father's 

board 
Knows  ere  he  speaks  the  too  familiar 

jest 


Is    on    its   way,    by    some  mysterious 

sign 
Forewarned,  the  click  before  the  striking 

bell. 

He  shrivelled  as  I  spread  my  growing 
leaves, 

Till  trust  and  reverence  changed  to  pity- 
ing care  ; 

He  lived  for  me  in  what  he  once  had 
been, 

But  I  for  him,  a  shadow,  a  defence, 

The  guardian  of  his  fame,  his  guide,  his 
staff, 

Leaned  on  so  long  he  fell  if  left  alone. 

I   was  his   eye,  his   ear,  his   cunning 
hand, 

Love  was  my  spur  and  longing  after 
fame, 

But  his  the  goading  thorn  of  sleepless 
age 

That  sees  its  shortening  span,  its  length- 
ening shades, 

That  clutches  what  it  may  with  eager 
grasp, 

And   drops  at  last  with  empty,    out- 
stretched hands. 

All  this  he  dreamed  not.     He  would 
sit  him  down 

Thinking  to  work  his  problems  as  of 
old, 

And  find  the  star  he  thought  so  plain  a 
blur, 

The  columned  figures  labyrinthine  wilds 

Without  my  comment,  blind  and  sense- 
less scrawls 

That  vexed  him  with  their  riddles  ;  he 
would  strive 

And  struggle  for  a  while,  and  then  his 
eye 

Would  lose  its  light,  and  over  all  his 
mind 

The  cold  gray  mist  would  settle ;  and 
erelong 

The  darkness  fell,  and  I  was  left  alone. 


194 


POEMS  FROM  THE  POET  AT  THE  BREAKFAST  TABLE. 


V. 

ALONE. 

ALONE  !  no  climber  of  an  Alpine  cliff, 
No  Arctic  venturer  on  the  waveless  sea, 
Feels  the  dread  stillness  round  him  as  it 

chills 

The  heart  of  him  who  leaves  the  slum- 
bering earth 

To  watch  the  silent  worlds  that  crowd 
the  sky. 

Alone  !    And  as  the  shepherd  leaves  his 

flock 

To  feed  upon  the  hillside,  he  meanwhile 
Finds  converse  in  the  warblings  of  the 

pipe 
Himself  has  fashioned  for  his  vacant 

hour, 

So  have  I  grown  companion  to  myself, 
And  to  the  wandering  spirits  of  the  air 
That  smile  and  whisper  round  us  in  our 

dreams. 
Thus  have  I  learned  to  search  if  I  may 

know 
The  whence  and  why  of  all  beneath  the 

stars 
And  all  beyond  them,  and  to  weigh  my 

life 

As  in  a  balance,  —  poising  good  and  ill 
Against  each  other,  —  asking  of  the 

Power 
That  flung  me  forth  among  the  whirling 

worlds, 

If  I  am  heir  to  any  inborn  right, 
Or  only  as  an  atom  of  the  dust 
That  every  wind  may  blow  where'er  it 

will. 

VI. 

QUESTIONING. 

I  AM  not  humble  ;  I  was  shown  my 

place, 

Clad  in  such  robes  as  Nature  had  at 
hand ; 


Took  what  she  gave,  not  chose  ;  I  know 

no  shame, 

No  fear  for  being  simply  what  I  am. 
I  am  not  proud,  I  hold  my  every  breath 
At  Nature's  mercy.     I  am  as  a  babe 
Borne  in  a  giant's  arms,  he  knows  not 

where ; 
Each  several  heart-beat,  counted  like  the 

coin 

A  miser  reckons,  is  a  special  gift 
As  from  an  unseen  hand  ;  if  that  with- 
hold 

Its  bounty  for  a  moment,  I  am  left 
A  clod  upon  the  earth  to  which  I  fall. 

Something  I  find  in  me  that  well  might 

claim 

The  love  of  beings  in  a  sphere  above 
This  doubtful  twilight  world  of  right 

and  wrong ; 

Something  that  shows  me  of  the  self- 
same clay 
That  creeps  or  swims  or  flies  in  humblest 

form. 

Had  I  been  asked,  before  I  left  my  bed 
Of  shapeless  dust,  what  clothing  I  would 

wear, 
I  would  have  said,  More  angel  and  less 

worm  ; 

But  for  their  sake  who  are  even  such  as  I, 
Of  the  same  mingled  blood,  I  would  not 

choose 

To  hate  that  meaner  portion  of  myself 
"Which  makes  me  brother  to  the  least  of 


I  dare  not  be  a  coward  with  my  lips 
Who  dare  to  question  all  things  in  my 

soul ; 
Some  men  may  find  their  wisdom  on 

their  knees, 
Some  prone  and  grovelling  in  the  dust 

like  slaves ; 
Let  the  meek  glowworm  glisten  in  the 

dew ; 


WIND-CLOUDS   AND  STAR-DRIFTS. 


195 


I  ask  to  lift  my  taper  to  the  sky 

As  they  who  hold  their  lamps  above 

their  heads, 

Trusting  the  larger  currents  up  aloft, 
Rather  than  crossing  eddies  round  their 

breast, 

Threatening  with  every  puff  the  flicker- 
ing blaze. 

My  life  shall  be  a  challenge,  not  a  truce  ! 
This   is  my  homage   to   the  mightier 

powers, 

To  ask  my  boldest  question,  undismayed 
By  muttered  threats  that  some  hysteric 

sense 
Of  wrong  or  insult  will  convulse  the 

throne 
Where  wisdom  reigns  supreme  ;  and  if  I 

err, 
They  all  must  err  who  have  to  feel  their 

way 

As  bats  that  fly  at  noon  ;  for  what  are  we 
But  creatures  of  the  night,  dragged  forth 

by  day, 
Who  needs   must   stumble,   and  with 

stammering  steps 
Spell  out  their  paths  in  syllables  of  pain  ? 

Thou  wilt  not  hold  in  scorn  the  child 

who  dares 
Look  up  to  Thee,  the  Father,  —  dares  to 

ask 
More  than  Thy  wisdom  answers.     From 

Thy  hand 
The  worlds  were  cast ;  yet  every  leaflet 

claims 
From  that  same  hand  its  little  shining 

sphere 
Of  star-lit  dew  ;  thine  image,  the  great 

sun, 
Girt  with  his  mantle  of  tempestuous 

flame, 

Glares  in  mid-heaven  ;  but  to  his  noon- 
tide blaze 
The  slender  violet  lifts  its  lidless  eye, 


And  from  his  splendor  steals  its  fairest 

hue, 
Its  sweetest  perfume  from  his  scorching 

fire. 


VII. 
WORSHIP. 

FROM  my  lone  turret  as  I  look  around 

O'er  the  green  meadows  to  the  ring  of 
blue, 

From  slope,  from  summit,  and  from 
half-hid  vale 

The  sky  is  stabbed  with  dagger-pointed 
spires, 

Their  gilded  symbols  whirling  in  the 
wind, 

Their  brazen  tongues  proclaiming  to 
the  world, 

"  Here  truth  is  sold,  the  only  genuine 
ware  ; 

See  that  it  has  our  trade-mark  !  You 
will  buy 

Poison  instead  of  food  across  the  way, 

The  lies  of "  this  or  that,  each  sev- 
eral name 

The  standard's  blazon  and  the  battle- 
cry 

Of  some  true-gospel  faction,  and  again 

The  token  of  the  Beast  to  all  beside. 

And  grouped  round  each  I  see  a  hud- 
dling crowd 

Alike  in  all  things  save  the  words  they 


In  love,  in  longing,  hate  and  fear  the 


Whom  do  we  trust  and  serve  ?    We 

speak  of  one 
And  bow  to  many  ;  Athens  still  would 

find 
The  shrines  of  all  she  worshipped  safe 

within 
Our  tall  barbarian  temples,   and    the 

thrones 


196         POEMS   FROM   THE   POET  AT  THE  BREAKFAST  TABLE. 


That  crowned  Olympus  mighty  as  of  old. 
The  god  of  music  rules  the  Sabbath 

choir ; 
The  lyric  muse  must  leave  the  sacred 

nine 

To  help  us  please  the  dilettante's  ear  ; 
Plutus  limps  homeward  with  us,  as  we 

leave 

The  portals  of  the  temple  where  we  knelt 
And  listened  while  the  god  of  eloquence 
(Hermes  of  ancient  days,  but  now  dis- 
guised 

In  sable  vestments)  with  that  other  god 
Somnus,  the  son  of  Erebus  and  Nox, 
Fights  in  unequal  contest  for  our  souls ; 
The   dreadful  sovereign   of  the  under 

world 

Still  shakes  his  sceptre  at  us,  and  we  hear 
The  baying  of  the  triple-throated  hound ; 
Eros  is  young  as  ever,  and  as  fair 
The  lovely  Goddess  born  of  ocean's  foam. 

These  be  thy  gods,  0  Israel !    Who 

is  he, 
The  one  ye  name  and  tell  us  that  ye 

serve, 
Whom  ye  would  call  me  from  my  lonely 

tower 
To    worship    with    the    many  -  headed 

throng  ? 

Is  it  the  God  that  walked  in  Eden's  grove 
In  the  cool  hour  to  seek  our  guilty  sire  ? 
The  God  who  dealt  with  Abraham  as 

the  sons 
Of  that  old  patriarch  deal  with  other 

men  ? 

The  jealous  God  of  Moses,  one  who  feels 
An  image  as  an  insult,  and  is  wroth 
With  him  who  made  it  and  his  child 

unborn  ? 
The   God  who  plagued  his  people  for 

the  sin 
Of  their  adulterous  king,    beloved  of 

him,  — 
The  same  who  offers  to  a  chosen  few 


The  right  to  praise  him  in  eternal  song 
While  a  vast  shrieking  world  of  endless 

woe 

Blends  its  dread  chorus  with  their  rap- 
turous hymn  ? 

Is  this  the  God  ye  mean,  or  is  it  he 
Who  heeds  the  sparrow's  fall,   whose 

loving  heart 

Is  as  the  pitying  father's  to  his  child, 
Whose  lesson  to  his  children  is  "For- 
give," 

Whose  plea  for  all,  "They  know  not 
what  they  do  "  ? 

VIII. 
MANHOOD. 

I  CLAIM  the  right  of  knowing  whom 

I  serve, 

Else  is  my  service  idle  ;  He  that  asks 
My  homage  asks  it  from  a  reasoning  soul. 
To  crawl  is  not  to  worship ;  we  have 

learned 

A  drill  of  eyelids,  bended  neck  and  knee, 
Hanging  our  prayers  on  hinges,  till  we 

ape 

The  flexures  of  the  many-jointed  worm. 
Asia  has  taught  her  Allahs  and  salaams 
To  the  world's  children,  —  we  have 

grown  to  men  ! 
We  who  have  rolled  the  sphere  beneath 

our  feet 

To  find  a  virgin  forest,  as  we  lay 
The  beams  of  our  rude  temple,  first  of  all 
Must  frame  its  doorway  high  enough 

for  man 

To  pass  unstooping  ;  knowing  as  we  do 
That  He  who  shaped  us  last  of  living 

forms 

Has  long  enough  been  served  by  creep- 
ing things, 
Reptiles  that  left  their  footprints   in 

the  sand 
Of  old  sea-margins  that  have  turned  to 

stone, 


WIND-CLOUDS   AND    STAR-DRIFTS. 


197 


And  men  who  learned  their  ritual ;  we 

demand 
To  know  him  first,  then  trust  him  and 

then  love 
When  we  have  found  him  worthy  of  our 

love, 
Tried  by  our  own  poor  hearts  and  not 

before ; 

He  must  be  truer  than  the  truest  friend, 
He  must  be  tenderer  than  a  woman's 

love, 

A  father  better  than  the  best  of  sires  ; 
Kinder  than  she  who  bore  us,  though 

we  sin 

Oftener  than  did  the  brother  we  are  told, 
We  —  poor  ill-tempered  mortals  —  must 

forgive, 
Though  seven  times  sinning  threescore 

times  and  ten. 

This  is  the  new  world's  gospel :  Be 

ye  men  ! 
Try  well  the  legends  of  the  children's 

time ; 

Ye  are  the  chosen  people,  God  has  led 
Your  steps  across  the  desert  of  the  deep 
As  now  across  the  desert  of  the  shore  ; 
Mountains  are  cleft  before  you  as  the 

sea 
Before  the  wandering  tribe  of  Israel's 

sons ; 

Still  onward  rolls  the  thunderous  cara- 
van, 

Its  coming  printed  on  the  western  sky, 
A  cloud  by  day,   by  night  a  pillared 

flame; 

Your  prophets  are  a  hundred  unto  one 
Of  them  of  old  who  cried,  "  Thus  saith 

the  Lord  "  ; 
They  told  of  cities  that  should  fall  in 

heaps, 
But  yours  of  mightier  cities  that  shall 

rise 
Where  yet  the  lonely  fishers  spread  their 

nets, 


Where  hides  the  fox  and  hoots  the  mid- 
night owl ; 
The  tree  of  knowledge  in  your  garden 

grows 

Not  single,  but  at  every  humble  door ; 
Its  branches  lend  you  their  immortal 

food, 
That  fills  you  with  the  sense  of  what 

ye  are, 

No  servants  of  an  altar  hewed  and  carved 
From  senseless  stone  by  craft  of  human 

hands, 
Rabbi,    or    dervish,    brahmin,    bishop, 

bonze, 
But  masters  of  the  charm  with  which 

they  work 
To  keep  your  hands  from  that  forbidden 

tree! 

Ye  that  have  tasted  that  divinest  fruit, 
Look  on  this  world  of  yours  with  opened 

eyes! 
Ye  are  as  gods !     Nay,  makers  of  your 


Each  day  ye  break  an  image  in  your 

shrine 

And  plant  a  fairer  image  where  it  stood : 
Where  is  the  Moloch  of  your  fathers' 

creed, 

Whose  fires  of  torment  burned  for  span- 
long  babes  ? 

Fit  object  for  a  tender  mother's  love  ! 
Why  not  ?    It  was  a  bargain  duly  made 
For  these    same    infants  through  the 

surety's  act 
Intrusted  with  their  all  for  earth  and 

heaven, 
By   Him   who    chose    their    guardian, 

knowing  well 
His  fitness  for  the  task,  — this,   even 

this, 

Was  the  true  doctrine  only  yesterday 
As  thoughts  are  reckoned,  —  and  to-day 

you  hear 
In  words  that  sound  as  if  from  human 

tongues 


198    POEMS  FROM  THE  POET  AT  THE  BREAKFAST  TABLE. 


Those   monstrous,    uncouth,  horrors  of 

the  past 
That  blot  the  t>lue  of  heaven  and  shame 

the  earth 
As  would  the  saurians  of  the  age  of 

slime, 

Awaking  from  their  stony  sepulchres 
And  wallowing  hateful  in  the  eye  of 

day! 

IX. 

RIGHTS. 

"WHAT  am  I  but  the  creature  Thou  hast 

made  ? 
What  have   I  save  the  blessings  Thou 

hast  lent  ? 
What  hope  I  but  Thy  mercy  and  Thy 

love  ? 
Who  but  myself  shall  cloud  my  soul  with 

fear? 
Whose  hand  protect  me  from  myself  but 

Thine  ? 
I  claim  the  rights  of  weakness,  I,  the 

babe, 
Call  on  my  sire  to  shield  me  from  the 

ills 

That  still  beset  my  path,  not  trying  me 
With  snares  beyond  my  wisdom  or  my 

strength, 
He  knowing  I  shall  use  them  to  my 

harm, 

And  find  a  tenfold  misery  in  the  sense 
That  in  my  childlike  folly  I  have  sprung 
The  trap  upon  myself  as  vermin  use 
Drawn  by  the  cunning  bait  to  certain 

doom.  , * 

Who  wrought  the  wondrous  charm  that 

leads  us  on 
To  sweet   perdition,   but  the  selfsame 

power 

That  set  the  fearful  engine  to  destroy 
His  wretched  offspring  (as  the   Rabbis 

tell), 


And  hid  its  yawning  jaws  and  treacher- 
ous springs 

In  such  a  show  of  innocent  sweet  flowers 

It  lured  the  sinless  angels  and  they  fell  ? 
Ah  !  He  who  prayed  the  prayer  of 
all  mankind 

Summed  in  those  few  brief  words-  the 
mightiest  plea 

For  erring  souls  before  the  courts  of 
heaven, — 

Save  us  from  being  tempted,  —  lest  we 
fall! 

If  we  are  only  as  the  potter's  clay 
Made  to  be  fashioned  as  the  artist  wills, 
And  broken  into  shards  if  we  offend 
The  eye  of  Him  who  made  us,  it  is  well ; 
Such  love  as  the  insensate  lump  of  clay 
That    spins  upon    the    swift-revolving 

wheel 
Bears  to  the  hand  that  shaped  its  growing 

form,  — 
Such  love,  no  more,  will  be  our  hearts' 

return 
To  the  great  Master-workman  for  his 

care,  — 

Or  would  be,  save  that  this,  our  breath- 
ing clay, 
Is    intertwined  with   fine  innumerous 

threads 
That  make  it  conscious  in  its  framer's 

hand ; 
And  this  He  must  remember  who  has 

filled 
These  vessels  with  the  deadly  draught 

of  life,  — 
Life,  that  means  death  to  all  it  claims. 

Our  love 
Must  kindle  in  the  ray  that  streams 

from  heaven, 

A  faint  reflection  of  the  light  divine  ; 
The  sun  must  warm  the  earth  before  the 

rose 
Can  show  her  inmost  heart-leaves  to  the 

sun. 


WIND-CLOUDS  AND   STAR-DEIFTS. 


199 


He  yields  some  fraction  of  the  Maker's 

right 
Who  gives  the  quivering  nerve  its  sense 

of  pain  ; 
Is  there  not  something  in  the  pleading 

eye 

Of  the  poor  brute  that  suffers,  which  ar- 
raigns 

The  law  that  bids  it  suffer  ?    Has  it  not 
A  claim  for  some  remembrance  in  the 

book 

That  fills  its  pages  with  the  idle  words 
Spoken  of  men  ?     Or  is  it  only  clay, 
Bleedingand  aching  in  the  potter's  hand, 
Yet  all  his  own  to  treat  it  as  he  will 
And  when  he  will  to  cast  it  at  his  feet, 
Shattered,  dishonored,  lost  forevermore  ? 
My  dog  loves  me,  but  could  he  look  be- 
yond 

His  earthly  master,  would  his  love  ex- 
tend 
To  Him  who  —  Hush  !  I  will  not  doubt 

fhat  He 
Is  better  than  our  fears,  and   will  not 

wrong 
The  least,  the  meanest  of  created  things ! 

He  would  not  trust  me  with  the  small- 
est orb 

That  circles  through  the  sky  ;  he  would 
not  give 

A  meteor  to  my  guidance  ;  would  not 
leave 

The  coloring  of  a  cloudlet  to  my  hand  ; 

He  locks  my  beating  heart  beneath  its 
bars 

And  keeps  the  key  himself;  he  meas- 
ures out 

The  draughts  of  vital  breath  that  warm 
my  blood, 

Winds  up  the  springs  of  instinct  which 
uncoil, 

Each  in  its  season  ;  ties  me  to  my  home, 

My  race,  my  time,  my  nation,  and  my 
creed 


So  closely  that  if  I  but  slip  my  wrist 
Out  of  the  band  that  cuts  it  to  the  bone, 
Men  say,  "  He  hath  a  devil"  ;  he  has  lent 
All  that  I  hold  in  trust,  as  unto  one 
By  reason  of  his  weakness  and  his  years 
Not  fit  to  hold  the  smallest  shred  in  fee 
uf  those  most  common  things  he  calls 

his  own  — 
And  yet  —  my  Rabbi  tells  me  —  he  has 

left 
The  care  of  that   to   which  a  million 

worlds 
Filled   with  unconscious  life  were  less 

than  naught, 

Has  left  that  mighty  universe,  the  Soul, 
To  the  weak  guidance  of  our  baby  hands, 
Let  the  foul  fiends  have  access  at  their 

will, 
Taking  the   shape   of    angels,    to  our 

hearts,  — 
Our  hearts  already  poisoned  through  and 

through 

With  the  fierce  virus  of  ancestral  sin  ; 
Turned    us  adrift   with  our  immortal 

charge, 

To  wreck  ourselves  in  gulfs  of  endless  woe. 
I  f  what  my  Rabbi  tells  me  is  the  truth 
Why  did  the  choir  of  angels  sing  for  joy  ? 
Heaven  must  be  compassed  in  a  narrow 

space, 

And  offer  more  than  room  enough  for  all 
That  pass  its  portals ;  but  the  under- 
world, 
The    godless    realm,   the    place   where 

demons  forge 

Their  fiery  darts  and  adamantine  chains, 
Must  swarm  with  ghosts  that  for  a  little 

while 
Had  worn  the  garb  of  flesh,  and  being 

heirs 

Of  all  the  dulness  of  their  stolid  sires, 
And  all   the   erring  instincts  of  their 

tribe, 
Nature's  own  teaching,  rudiments  of 

"  sin," 


200    POEMS  FROM  THE  POET  AT  THE  BREAKFAST  TABLE. 


Fell  headlong  in  the  snare  that  could 

not  fail 
To  trap  the  wretched  creatures  shaped 

of  clay 
And  cursed  with  sense  enough  to  lose 

their  souls  ! 
Brother,  thy  heart  is  troubled  at  rriy1 

word  ; 

Sister,  I  see  the  cloud  is  on  thy  brow. 
He  will  not  blame  me,  He  who  sends  not 

peace, 
But  sends  a  sword,  and  bids  us  strike 

amain 

At  Error's  gilded  crest,  where  in  the  van 
Of  earth's  great  army,  mingling  with  the 

best 

And  bravest  of  its  leaders,  shouting  loud 
The    battle-cries   that    yesterday  have 

led 

The  host  of  Truth  to  victory,  but  to-day 
Are  watchwords  of  the  laggard  and  the 

slave, 
He  leads  his  dazzled  cohorts.     God  has 

made 
This  world  a  strife  of  atoms  and  of 

spheres  ; 

With  every  breath  I  sigh  myself  away 
And  take  my  tribute  from  the  wandering 

wind 

To  fan  the  flame  of  life's  consuming  fire ; 
So,  while  my  thought  has  life,  it  needs 

must  burn, 
And    burning,    set    the    stubble-fields 

ablaze, 
Where   all  the  harvest  long  ago  was 

reaped 

And  safely  garnered  in  the  ancient  barns, 
But  still  the  gleaners,  groping  for  their 

food, 

Go  blindly  feeling  through  the  close- 
shorn  straw, 

While  the  young  reapers  flash  their  glit- 
tering steel 
Where  later  suns  have  ripened  nobler 

grain  ! 


X. 


TRUTHS. 

THE  time  is  racked  with  birth-pangs; 

every  hour 
Brings  forth  some  gasping  truth,   and 

truth  new-born 
Looks    a     misshapen    and     untimely 

growth, 
The  terror   of  the  household  and  its 

shame, 

A  monster  coiling  in  its  nurse's  lap 
That  some  would  strangle,  some  would 

only  starve  ; 
But  still  it  breathes,  and  passed  from 

hand  to  hand, 
And   suckled  at  a  hundred    half-clad 

breasts, 

Comes  slowly  to  its  stature  and  its  form, 
Calms  the  rough  ridges  of  its  dragon- 
scales, 
Changes  to   shining    locks   its    snaky 

hair, 

And  moves  transfigured  into  angel  guise, 
Welcomed  by  all  that  cursed  its  hour  of 

birth, 

And  folded  in  the  same  encircling  arms 
That  cast  it  like  a  serpent  from  their 

hold! 

If  thou  wouldst  live  in  honor,  die  in 

peace, 
Have  the  fine  words  the  marble-worker* 

learn 

To  carve  so  well,  upon  thy  funeral-stone, 
And  earn  a  fair  obituary,  dressed 
In  all  the  many-colored  robes  of  praise, 
Be  deafer  than  the  adder  to  the  cry 
Of  that  same  foundling  truth,  until  it 

grows 

To  seemly  favor,  and  at  length  has  won 
The  smiles  of  hard-mouthed  men  and 

light-lipped  dames ; 
Then  snatch  it  from  its  meagre  nurse's 

breast, 


WIND-CLOUDS  AND   STAR-DRIFTS. 


201 


Fold  it  in  silk  and  give  it  food  from 

gold ; 
So  shalt  thou  share  its  glory  when  at 

last 

It  drops  its  mortal  vesture,  and  revealed 
In  all  the  splendor  of  its  heavenly  form, 
Spreads  on  the  startled  air  its  mighty 

wings  ! 

Alas  !  how  much  that  seemed  immor- 
tal truth 

That  heroes  fought  for,  martyrs  died  to 
save, 

Reveals  its  earth-born  lineage,  growing 
old 

And  limping  in  its  march,  its  wings  un- 
pluuied, 

Its  heavenly  semblance    faded  like   a 

dream  ! 

Here  in  this  painted  casket,  just  un- 
sealed, 

Lies  what  was  once  a  breathing  shape 
like  thine, 

Once  loved   as  thou  art  loved  ;    there 
beamed  the  eyes 

That  looked  on  Memphis  in  its  hour  of 
pride, 

That  saw  the  walls   of  hundred-gated 
Thebes, 

And  all  the  mirrored  glories  of  the  Nile. 

See  how  they  toiled  that  all-consuming 
time 

Might  leave  the  frame  immortal  in  its 
tomb  ; 

Filled  it  with  fragrant  balms  and  odor- 
ous gums 

That  still  diffuse  their  sweetness  through 
the  air, 

And  wound  and  wound  with  patient  fold 
on  fold 

The  flaxen  bands  thy  hand  has  rudely 
torn  ! 

Perchance  thou  yet  canst  see  the  faded 
stain 

Of  the  sad  mourner's  tear. 


XI. 
IDOLS. 

BUT  what  is  this  ? 

The  sacred  beetle,  bound  upon  the  breast 
Of  the  blind  heathen  !   Snatch  the  curi- 
ous prize, 
Give  it  a  place  among  thy  treasured 

spoils 

Fossil  and  relic,  —  corals,  encrinites, 
The  fly  in  amber  and  the  fish  in  stone, 
The  twisted  circlet  of  Etruscan  gold, 
Medal,  intaglio,  poniard,  poison-ring, — 
Place    for  the  Memphian  beetle  with 
thine  hoard  ! 

Ah  !  longer  than  thy  creed  has  blest 
the  world 

This  toy,  thus  ravished  from  thy  broth- 
er's breast, 

"Was  to  the  heart  of  Mizraim  as  divine, 

As  holy,  as  the  symbol  that  we  lay 

On  the  still  bosom  of  our  white-robed 
dead, 

And  raise  above  their  dust  that  all  may 
know 

Here  sleeps  an  heir  of  glory.  Loving 
friends, 

With  tears  of  trembling  faith  and  chok- 
ing sobs, 

And  prayers  to  those  who  judge  of  mor- 
tal deeds, 

Wrapped  this  poor  image  in  the  cere- 
ment's fold 

That  Isis  and  Osiris,  friends  of  man, 

Might  know  their  own  and  claim  the 
ransomed  soul. 

An  idol  ?  Man  was  born  to  worship 
such  ! 

An  idol  is  an  image  of  his  thought ; 

Sometimes  he  carves  it  out  of  gleaming 
stone, 

And  sometimes  moulds  it  out  of  glitter- 
ing gold, 


202 


POEMS  FROM  THE  POET  AT  THE  BREAKFAST  TABLE. 


Or  rounds  it  in  a  mighty  frescoed  dome, 
Or  lifts  it  heavenward  in  a  lofty  spire, 
Or  shapes  it  in  a  cunning  frame  of  words, 
Or  pays  his  priest  to  make  it  day  by  day ; 
For  sense  must  have  its  god  as  well  as 

soul; 

A  new-born  Dian  calls  for  silver  shrines, 
And  Egypt's  holiest  symbol  is  our  own, 
The  sign  we  worship  as  did  they  of  old 
When  Isis  and  Osiris  ruled  the  world. 

Let  us  be  true  to  our  most  subtle 

selves, 

We  long  to  have  our  idols  like  the  rest. 
Think  !  when  the  men  of  Israel  had 

their  God 
Encamped  among  them,   talking  with 

their  chief, 

Leading  them  in  the  pillar  of  the  cloud 
And  watching  o'er  them  in  the  shaft  of 

fire, 
They  still  must  have  an  image  ;  still 

they  longed 

For  somewhat  of  substantial,  solid  form 
Whereon  to  hang  their  garlands,  and  to 

fix 
Their  wandering  thoughts  and  gain  a 

stronger  hold 

For  their  uncertain  faith,  not  yet  assured 
If  those  same  meteors  of  the  day  and 

night 

Were  not  mere  exhalations  of  the  soil. 
Are  we  less  earthly  than  the  chosen 

race  ? 

Are  we  more  neighbors  of  the  living  God 
Than  they  who  gathered  manna  every 

morn, 
Reaping  where  none  had  sown,  and  heard 

the  voice 
Of  him  who  met  the  Highest  in  the 

mount, 
And  brought  them  tables,  graven  with 

His  hand  ? 
Yet  these  must  have  their  idol,  brought 

their  gold, 


That  star-browed  Apis  might  be  god 

again  ; 
Yea,  from  their  ears  the  women  brake 

the  rings 
That  lent  such  splendors  to  the  gypsy 

brown 
Of  sunburnt  cheeks,  —  what  more  could 

woman  do 
To  show  her  pious  zeal  ?    They  went 

astray, 

But  nature  led  them  as  it  leads  us  alL 
We  too,  who  mock  at  Israel's  golden 

calf 

And  scoff  at  Egypt's  sacred  scarabee, 
Would  have  our  amulets  to  clasp  and 

kiss, 
And  flood  with  rapturous  tears,  and  bear 

with  us 

To  be  our  dear  companions  in  the  dust ; 
Such  magic  works  an  image  in  our  souls  ! 

Man  is  an  embryo  ;  see  at  twenty  years 
His  bones,  the  columns  that  uphold  his 

frame 

Not  yet  cemented,  shaft  and  capital, 
Mere  fragments  of  the  temple  incom- 
plete. 
Attwoscore,  threescore,  is  he  then  full 

grown  ? 

Nay,  still  a  child,  and  as  the  little  maids 
Dress  and  undress  their  puppets,  so  he 

tries 

To  dress  a  lifeless  creed,  as  if  it  lived, 
And  change  its  raiment  when  the  world 

cries  shame  ! 

We  smile  to  see  our  little  ones  at  play 
So  grave,  so  thoughtful,  with  maternal 

care 
Nursing  the  wisps  of  rags  they  call  their 

babes  ;  — 
Does  He  not  smile  who  sees  us  with  the 

toys 

We  call  by  sacred  names,  and  idly  feign 
To  be  what  we  have  called  them  ?    He 

is  still 


WIND-CLOUDS   AND   STAR-DRIFTS. 


203 


The   Father  of  this  helpless   nursery- 
brood, 
Whose  second  childhood  joins  so  close 

its  first, 
That  in  the  crowding,  hurrying  years 

between 
We  scarce  have  trained  our  senses  to 

their  task 
Before  the  gathering  mist  has  dimmed 

our  eyes, 
And  with  our  hollowed  palm  we  help 

our  ear, 
And   trace  with  trembling   hand  our 

wrinkled  names, 

And  then  begin  to  tell  our  stories  o'er, 
And  see  —  not  hear  —  the  whispering 


lips  that  say, 


"You  know 


?    Your  father  knew 


him.  —  This  is  he, 
Tottering  and  leaning  on  the  hireling's 

arm,'  — 
And  so,  at  length,  disrobed  of  all  that 

clad 
The  simple  life  we  share  with  weed  and 

worm, 
Go  to  our  cradles,  naked  as  we  came. 


XII. 
LOVE. 

WHAT  if  a  soul  redeemed,  a  spirit  that 

loved 
While  yet  on  earth  and  was  beloved  in 

txirn, 
And  still  remembered  every  look  and 

tone 

Of  that  dear  earthly  sister  who  was  left 
Among  the  unwise  virgins  at  the  gate,  — 
Itself  admitted  with  the  bridegroom's 

train,  — 
What  if  this  spirit  redeemed,  amid  the 

host 
Of  chanting  angels,  in  some  transient 

lull 


Of  the  eternal  anthem,  heard  the  cry 
Of  its  lost  darling,  whom  in  evil  hour 
Some  wilder  pulse  of  nature  led  astray 
And  left  an  outcast  in  a  world  of  fire, 


fiends, 

Sleepless,  unpitying,  masters  of  the  skill 
To  wring  the  maddest  ecstasies  of  pain 
From  worn-out  souls  that  only  ask  to 

die,  — 
Would  it  not  long  to  leave  the  bliss  of 

Heaven,  — 

Bearing  a  little  water  in  its  hand 
To  moisten  those  poor  lips  that  plead  in 

vain 

With  Him  we  call  our  Father  ?  Or  is  all 
So  changed  in  such  as  taste  celestial  joy 
They  hear  unmoved  the  endless  wail  of 

woe; 
The  daughter  in  the  same  dear  tones 

that  hushed 
Her  cradled  slumbers ;   she  who  once 

had  held 

A  babe  upon  her  bosom  from  its  voice 
Hoarse  with  its  cry  of  anguish,  yet  the 

same  ? 

No  !  not  in  ages  when  the  Dreadful 

Bird 
Stamped  his  huge  footprints,  and  the 

Fearful  Beast 
Strode  with  the  flesh  about  those  fossil 

bones 
We   build  to  mimic  life  with  pygmy 

hands,  — 
Not  in  those  earliest  days  when  men 

ran  wild 
And  gashed  each  other  with  their  knives 

of  stone, 
When  their  low  foreheads  bulged  in 

ridgy  brows 
And  their  flat  hands  were  callous  in  the 

palm 
With  walking  in  the  fashion  of  their 

sires, 


204    POEMS  FROM  THE  POET  AT  THE  BREAKFAST  TABLE. 


Grope  as  they  might  to  find  a  cruel  god 
To  work  their  will  on  such  as  human 

wrath 
Had  wrought  its  worst  to  torture,  and 

had  left 
With  rage  unsated,  white  and  stark  and 

cold, 
Could  hate  have  shaped  a  demon  more 

malign 
Than  him  the  dead  men  mummied  in 

their  creed 
And  taught  their  trembling  children  to 

adore  ! 

Made  in  his  image  !     Sweet  and  gra- 
cious souls 
Dear  to  my  heart  by  nature's  fondest 

names, 
Is  not  your  memory  still  the  precious 

mould 
That  lends  its  form  to  Him  who  hears 

my  prayer  ? 

Thus  only  I  behold  him,  like  to  them, 
Long-suffering,    gentle,    ever    slow    to 

wrath, 

If  wrath  it  be  that  only  wounds  to  heal, 
Ready  to  meet  the  wanderer  ere  he  reach 
The  door  he  seeks,  forgetful  of  his  sin, 
Longing  to  clasp  him  in  a  father's  arms, 
And  seal  his  pardon  with  a  pitying  tear  ! 

Four  gospels  tell  their  story  to  man- 
kind, 

And  none  so  full  of  soft,  caressing  words 
That  bring  the  Maid  of  Bethlehem  and 

her  Babe 
Before  our  tear-dimmed  eyes,  as  his  who 

learned 

In  the  meek  service  of  his  gracious  art 
The  tones  which  like  the  medicinal  balms 
That  calm  the  sufferer's  anguish,  soothe 

our  souls. 

—  0  that  the  loving  woman,  she  who  sat 
So  long  a  listener  at  her  Master's  feet, 
Had  left  us  Mary's  Gospel,  —  all  she 
heard 


Too  sweet,  too  subtle  for  the  ear  of  man  ! 
Mark  how  the  tender-hearted  mothers 

read 

The  messages  of  love  between  the  lines 
Of  the  same  page  that  loads  the  bitter 

tongue 

Of  him  who  deals  in  terror  as  his  trade 
With  threatening  words  of  wrath  that 

scorch  like  flame  ! 
They  tell  of  angels  whispering  round 

the  bed 

Of  the  sweet  infant  smiling  in  its  dream, 
Of  lambs  enfolded  in  the  Shepherd's 

arms, 
Of  Him  who  blessed  the  children  ;  of 

the  land 
Where    crystal    rivers    feed    unfading 

flowers, 
Of  cities  golden-paved  with  streets  of 

pearl, 
Of  the  white  robes  the  winged  creatures 

wear, 

The  crowns  and  harps  from  whose  melo- 
dious strings 

One  long,  sweet  anthem  flows  forever- 
more  ! 
—  We  too  had  human  mothers,  even 

as  Thou, 
Whom  we  have  learned  to  worship  as 

remote 
From  mortal  kindred,   wast  a  cradled 

babe. 
The  milk  of  woman  filled  our  branching 

veins, 

She  lulled  us  with  her  tender  nursery- 
song, 

And  folded  round  us  her  untiring  arms, 
While  the  first  unremembered  twilight 

y«ar 
Shaped  us  to  conscious  being  ;  still  we 

feel 
Her  pulses  in  onr  own,  —  too  faintly 

feel; 
Would  that  the  heart  of  woman  warmed 

our  creeds ! 


EPILOGUE   TO  THE   BREAKFAST-TABLE   SERIES. 


205 


Not  from  the  sad-eyed  hermit's  lonely 

cell, 
Not  from  the  conclave  where  the  holy 

men 

Glare  on  each  other,  as  with  angry  eyes 
They  battle  for  God's  glory  and  their 

own, 
Till,   sick  of  wordy  strife,   a  show  of 

hands 

Fixes  the  faith  of  ages  yet  unborn,  — 
Ah,  not  from  these  the  listening  soul 

can  hear 
The  Father's  voice  that  speaks  itself 

divine ! 
Love  must  be  still  our  Master  ;  till  we 

learn 
What  he  can   teach  us  of  a  woman's 

heart, 
We  know  not  His,  whose  love  embraces 

all. 


EPILOGUE  TO  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE 
SERIES. 

AUTOCRAT  —  PROFESSOR—  POET. 
AT  A  BOOKSTORE. 

Anno  Domini  1972. 

A  CRAZY  bookcase,  placed  before 
A  low-price  dealer's  open  door  ; 
Therein  arrayed  in  broken  rows 
A  ragged  crew  of  rhyme  and  prose, 
The  homeless  vagrants,  waifs  and  strays 
Whose  low  estate  this  line  betrays 
(Set  forth  the  lesser  birds  to  lime) 
YOUR  CHOICE   AMONG   THESE    BOOKS,  1 
DIME! 

Ho  !  dealer  ;  for  its  motto's  sake 

This  scarecrow  from  the  shelf  I  take  ; 

Three  starveling  volumes  bound  in  one, 

Its  covers  warping  in  the  sun. 

Methinks  it  hath  a  musty  smell, 

I  like  its  flavor  none  too  well, 

But  Yorick's  brain  was  far  from  dull, 


Though   Hamlet  pah !  'd,  and  dropped 
his  skull. 

Why,  here  comes  rain  !    The  sky  grows 

dark,  — 

Was  that  the  roll  of  thunder  ?    Hark  ! 
The  shop  affords  a  safe  retreat, 
A  chair  extends  its  welcome  seat, 
The  tradesman  has  a  civil  look 
(I  've  paid,  impromptu,  for  my  book), 
The  clouds  portend  a  sudden  shower,  — . 
I  '11  read  my  purchase  for  an  hour. 
*  »  * 

What  have  I  rescued  from  the  shelf  ? 
A  Boswell,  writing  out  himself ! 
For  though  he  changes  dress  and  name, 
The  man  beneath  is  still  the  same, 
Laughing  or  sad,  by  fits  and  starts, 
One  actor  in  a  dozen  parts, 
And  whatsoe'er  the  mask  may  be, 
The  voice  assures  us,  This  is  he. 

I  say  not  this  to  cry  him  down ; 
I  find  my  Shakespeare  in  his  clown, 
His  rogues  the  selfsame  parent  own  ; 
Nay  !  Satan  talks  in  Milton's  tone  ! 
Where'er  the  ocean  inlet  strays, 
The  salt  sea  wave  its  source  betrays, 
Where'er  the  queen  of  summer  blows, 
She  tells  the  zephyr,  "  I  'm  the  rose  ! " 

And  his  is  not  the  playwright's  page  ; 
His  table  does  not  ape  the  stage  •, 
What  matter  if  the  figures  seen 
Are  only  shadows  on  a  screen, 
He  finds  in  them  his  lurking  thought, 
And  on  their  lips  the  words  he  sought, 
Like  one  who  sits  before  the  keys 
And  plays  a  tune  himself  to  please. 

And  was  he  noted  in  his  day  ? 

Read,   flattered,   honored  ?    Who  shall 

say? 

Poor  wreck  of  time  the  wave  has  cast 
To  find  a  peaceful  shore  at  last, 


206 


POEMS  FROM  THE  POET  AT  THE  BREAKFAST  TABLE. 


Once  glorying  in  thy  gilded  name 
And  freighted  deep  with  hopes  of  fame, 
Thy  leaf  is  moistened  with  a  tear, 
The  first  for  many  a  long,  long  year  ! 

For  be  it  more  or  less  of  art 

That  veils  the  lowliest  human  heart 

"Where  passion  throbs,  where  friendship 

glows, 

Where  pity's  tender  tribute  flows, 
Where  love  has  lit  its  fragrant  fire, 
And  sorrow  quenched  its  vain  desire, 
For  me  the  altar  is  divine, 
Its  flame,  its  ashes,  —  all  are  mine  ! 

And  thou,  my  brother,  as  I  look 
And  see  thee  pictured  in  thy  book, 


Thy  years  on  every  page  confessed 
In  shadows  lengthening  from  the  west, 
Thy  glance  that  wanders,  as  it  sought 
Some  freshly  opening  flower  of  thought, 
Thy  hopeful  nature,  light  and  free, 
I  start  to  find  myself  in  thee  ! 
»  *  * 

Come,    vagrant,   outcast,   wretch    for- 
lorn 

In  leather  jerkin  stained  and  torn, 
Whose  talk  has  filled  my  idle  hour 
And  made  me  half  forget  the  shower, 
I  '11  do  at  least  as  much  for  you, 
Your  coat  I  '11  patch,  your  gilt  renew, 
Read  you  —  perhaps  —  some  other  time. 
Not  bad,  my  bargain  !    Price  one  dime  ! 


"  Come,  vagrant,  outcast,  wretch  forlorn."     Page  206. 


POEMS    OF   THE   CLASS   OF  '29, 


1851  -  1877. 


BILL  AND  JOE. 

COME,  dear  old  comrade,  you  and  I 
Will  steal  an  hour  from  days  gone  by, 
The  shining  days  when  life  was  new, 
And  all  was  bright  with  morning  dew, 
The  lusty  days  of  long  ago, 
"When  you  were  Bill  and  I  was  Joe. 

Your  name  may  flaunt  a  titled  trail 
Proud  as  a  cockerel's  rainbow  tail, 
And  mine  as  brief  appendix  wear 
As  Tarn  O'Shanter's  luckless  mare  ; 
To-day,  old  friend,  remember  still 
That  I  am  Joe  and  you  are  Bill. 

You've  won  the  great  world's  envied 

prize, 

And  grand  you  look  in  people's  eyes, 
With  HON.  and  L  L.  D. 
In  big  brave  letters,  fair  to  see,  — 
Your  fist,  old  fellow  !  off  they  go  !  — 
How  are  you,  Bill  ?    How  are  you,  Joe  ? 

You  've  worn  the  judge's  ermined  robe  ; 
You  've  taught  your  name  to  half  the 

globe  ; 

You've  sung  mankind  a  deathless  strain ; 
You  've  made  the  dead  past  live  again  : 
The  world  may  call  you  what  it  will, 
But  you  and  I  are  Joe  and  Bill. 

The  chaffing  young  folks  stare  and  say 
"  See  those  old  buffers,  bent  and  gray,  — 


They  talk  like  fellows  in  their  teens  ! 
Mad,  poor  old  boys  !    That 's  what  it 

means,"  — 

And  shake  their  heads  ;  they  little  know 
The  throbbing  hearts  of  Bill  and  Joe .' — 

How  Bill  forgets  his  hour  of  pride, 
While  Joe  sits  smiling  at  his  side  ; 
How  Joe,  in  spite  of  time's  disguise, 
Finds  the  old  schoolmate  in  his  eyes,  — 
Those  calm,  stern  eyes  that  melt  and  fill 
As  Joe  looks  fondly  up  at  Bill. 

Ah,  pensive  scholar,  what  is  fame  ? 
A  fitful  tongue  of  leaping  flame  ; 
A  giddy  whirlwind's  fickle  gust, 
That  lifts  a  pinch  of  mortal  dust ; 
A  few  swift  years,  and  who  can  show 
Which  dust  was  Bill  and  which  was 
Joe? 

The  weary  idol  takes  his  stand, 
Holds  out  his  braised  and  aching  hand, 
While  gaping  thousands  come  and  go,  — 
How  vain  it  seems,  this  empty  show  ! 
Till  all  at  once  his  pulses  thrill ;  — 
'T  is  poor  old  Joe's   "God  bless  you, 
Bill ! " 

And  shall  we  breathe  in  happier  spheres 
The  names  that  pleased  our  mortal  ears  ; 
In  some  sweet  lull  of  harp  and  song 
For  earth-born  spirits  none  too  long, 


208 


POEMS   OF  THE  CLASS   OF   '29. 


Just  whispering  of  the  world  below 
Where  this  was  Bill,  and  that  was  Joe  ? 

No  matter ;  while  our  home  is  here 
No  sounding  name  is  half  so  dear  ; 
When  fades  at  length  our  lingering  day, 
Who   cares  what  pompous  tombstones 

say? 

Read  on  the  hearts  that  love  us  still, 
Hie  jacet  Joe.     Hie  jacet  Bill. 


1851. 

A  SONG  OF  "TWENTY-NINE." 

THE  summer  dawn  is  breaking 
On  Auburn's  tangled  bowers, 
The  golden  light  is  waking 
On  Harvard's  ancient  towers  ; 
The  sun  is  in  the  sky 
That  must  see  us  do  or  die, 
Ere  it  shine  on  the  line 
Of  the  CLASS  OF  '29. 

At  last  the  day  is  ended, 

The  tutor  screws  no  more, 
By  doubt  and  fear  attended 
Each  hovers  round  the  door, 
Till  the  good  old  Praeses  cries, 
While  the  tears  stand  in  his  eyes, 
"  You  have  passed,  and  are  classed 
With  the  BOYS  OF  "29." 

Not  long  are  they  in  making 
The  college  halls  their  own, 
Instead  of  standing  shaking, 
Too  bashful  to  be  known  ; 

But  they  kick  the  Seniors'  shins 
Ere  the  second  week  begins, 
When  they  stray  in  the  way 
Of  the  BOYS  OF  '29. 

If  a  jolly  set  is  trolling 
The  last  Der  Freischutz  airs, 

Or  a  "cannon  bullet"  rolling 
Comes  bouncing  down  the  stairs, 


The  tutors  looking  out, 
Sigh,  "Alas  !  there  is  no  doubt, 
'T  is  the  noise  of  the  Boys 
Of  the  CLASS  OF  '29." 

Four  happy  years  together, 

By  storm  and  sunshine  tried, 
In  changing  wind  and  weather, 
They  rough  it  side  by  side, 

Till  they  hear  their  Mother  cry, 
"You  are  fledged,  and  you  must  fly," 
And  the  bell  tolls  the  knell 
Of  the  days  of  '29. 

Since  then  in  peace  or  trouble, 
Full  many  a  year  has  rolled, 
And  life  has  counted  double 
The  days  that  then  we  told  ; 
Yet  we  '11  end  as  we  've  begun, 
For  though  scattered,  we  are  one, 
While  each  year  sees  us  here, 
Round  the  board  of  '29. 

Though  fate  may  throw  between  us 

The  mountains  or  the  sea, 
No  time  shall  ever  wean  us, 
No  distance  set  us  free  ; 

But  around  the  yearly  board, 
When  the  flaming  pledge  is  poured, 
It  shall  claim  every  name 
On  the  roll  of  '29. 

To  yonder  peaceful  ocean 

That  glows  with  sunset  fires, 
Shall  reach  the  warm  emotion 
This  welcome  day  inspires, 
Beyond  the  ridges  cold 
Where  a  brother  toils  for  gold, 
Till  it  shine  through  the  mine 
Round  the  BOY  OF  '29. 

If  one  whom  fate  has  broken 

Shall  lift  a  moistened  eye, 
We  '11  say,  before  he  's  spoken  — 

"Old  Classmate,  don't  you  cry  ! 


QUESTIONS   AND   ANSWERS.  —  AN  IMPROMPTU. 


209 


Here,  take  the  purse  I  hold, 
There  's  a  tear  upon  the  gold  — 
It  was  mine  —  it  is  thine  — 
A'n't  we  BOYS  OF  '29  ?" 

As  nearer  still  and  nearer 
The  fatal  stars  appear, 
The  living  shall  be  dearer 
With  each  encircling  year, 
Till  a  few  old  men  shall  say 
"We  remember  't  is  the  day  — 
Let  it  pass  with  a  glass 
For  the  CLASS  OF  '29." 

As  one  by  one  is  falling 

Beneath  the  leaves  or  snows, 
Each  memory  still  recalling 
The  broken  ring  shall  close, 
Till  the  nightwinds  softly  pass 
O'er  the  green  and  growing  grass, 
Where  it  waves  on  the  graves 
Of  the  BOYS  OF  '29  ! 


1852. 

QUESTIONS  AND  ANSWERS. 

WHERE,  0  where   are    the   visions  of 

morning, 

Fresh  as  the  dews  of  our  prime  ? 
Gone,  like  tenants  that  quit  without 

warning, 
Down  the  back  entry  of  time. 

Where,  0  where  are  life's  lilies  and  roses, 
Nursed  in  the  golden  dawn's  smile? 

Dead  as  the  bulrushes  round  little  Moses, 
On  the  old  banks  of  the  Nile. 

Where  are  the  Marys,  and  Anns,  and 

Elizas, 

Loving  and  lovely  of  yore  ? 
Look  in   the  columns    of   old  Adver- 
tisers, — 
Married  and  dead  by  the  score. 


Where  the  gray  colts  and  the  ten-year- 
old  fillies, 

Saturday's  triumph  and  joy  ? 
Gone,  like  our  friend  TroSaj  w/cus  Achilles, 

Homer's  ferocious  old  boy. 

Die-away  dreams  of  ecstatic  emotion, 
Hopes  like  young  eagles  at  play, 

Vows  of  unheard-of  and  endless  devotion, 
How  ye  have  faded  away ! 

Yet,  though  the  ebbing  of  Time's  mighty 

river 

Leave  our  young  blossoms  to  die, 
Let  him  roll  smooth  in  his  current  for- 
ever, 
Till  the  last  pebble  is  dry. 

1853. 

AN  IMPROMPTU. 

Not  premeditated. 

THE  clock  has  struck  noon  ;  ere  it  thrice 
tell  the  hours 

We  shall  meet  round  the  table  that 
blushes  with  flowers, 

And  I  shall  blush  deeper  with  shame- 
driven  blood 

That  I  came  to  the  banquet  and  brought 
not  a  bud. 

Who  cares  that  his  verse  is  a  beggar  in 

art 
If  you  see  through  its  rags  the  full  throb 

of  his  heart  ? 
Who  asks  if  his  comrade  is  battered  and 

tanned 
When  he  feels  his  warm  soul  in  the  clasp 

of  his  hand  ? 

No  !  be  it  an  epic,  or  be  it  a  line, 

The  Boys  will  all  love  it  because  it  is 

mine  ; 
I  sung  their  last  song  on  the  morn  of 

the  day 


210 


POEMS   OF   THE   CLASS   OF   '29. 


That  tore  from  their  lives  the  last  blos- 
som of  May. 

1 1  is  not  the  sunset  that  glows  in  the  wine, 
But  the  smile  that  beams  over  it,  makes 

it  divine  ; 
I   scatter  these  drops,  and  behold,  as 

they  fall, 
The  day-star  of  memoiy  shines  through 

them  all ! 

And  these  are  the  last  ;  they  are  drops 

that  I  stole 
From  a  wine-press  that  crushes  the  life 

from  the  soul, 
But  they  ran  through  my  heart  and  they 

sprang  to  my  brain 
Till  our  twentieth  sweet  summer  was 

smiling  again  ! 

1854. 

THE  OLD   MAN  DREAMS. 

0  FOR  one  hour  of  youthful  joy  ! 
Give  back  my  twentieth  spring  ! 

1  'd  rather  laugh,  a  bright-haired  boy, 
Than  reign,  a  gray-beard  king. 

Oil'  with  the  spoils  of  wrinkled  age  ! 

Away  with  Learning's  crown  ! 
Tear  out  life's  Wisdom-written  page, 

And  dash  its  trophies  down  ! 

One  moment  let  my  life-blood  stream 
From  boyhood's  fount  of  flame ! 

Give  me  one  giddy,  reeling  dream 
Of  life  all  love  and  fame  ! 


My  listening  angel  heard  the  prayer, 
And,  calmly  smiling,  said, 

"  If  I  but  touch  thy  silvered  hair 
Thy  hasty  wish  hath  sped. 

"  But  is  there  nothing  in  thy  track, 

To  bid  thee  fondly  stay, 
While  the  swift  seasons  hurry  back 

To  find  the  wished-for  day  ?  " 


"Ah,  truest  soul  of  womankind  ! 

Without  thee  what  were  life  ? 
One  bliss  I  cannot  leave  behind  : 

I  '11  take  —  my  —  precious  —  wife  !  " 

—  The  angel  took  a  sapphire  pen 

And  wrote  in  rainbow  dew, 
TJie  man  would  be  a  boy  again, 

And  be  a  husband  too  ! 

' '  And  is  there  nothing  yet  unsaid, 

Before  the  change  appears  ? 
Remember,  all  their  gifts  have  fled 

With  those  dissolving  years." 

' '  Why  yes  "  ;  for  memory  would  recall 

My  fond  paternal  joys  ; 
"  I  could  not  bear  to  leave  them  all  — 

I '11  take — my — girl  — and  —  boys." 

The  smiling  angel  dropped  his  pen,  — 

' '  Why  this  will  never  do  ; 
The  man  would  be  a  boy  again, 

And  be  a  father  too  ! " 


And  so  I  laughed,  —  my  laughter  woke 
The  household  with  its  noise,  — 

And  wrote  my  dream,  when  morning 

broke, 
To  please  the  gray-haired  boys. 

1855. 

REMEMBER -FORGET. 

AND  what  shall  be  the  song  to-night, 

If  song  there  needs  must  be  ? 
If  every  year  that  brings  us  here 

Must  steal  an  hour  from  me  ? 
Say,  shall  it  ring  a  merry  peal, 

Or  heave  a  mourning  sigh 
O'er  shadows  cast,  by  years  long  past, 

On  moments  flitting  by  ? 

Nay,  take  the  first  unbidden  line 

The  idle  hour  may  send, 
No  studied  grace  can  mend  the  face 

That  smiles  as  friend  on  friend  : 


OUK  INDIAN   SUMMER. 


211 


The  balsam  oozes  from  the  pine, 
The  sweetness  from  the  rose, 

And  so,  unsought,  a  kindly  thought 
Finds  language  as  it  flows. 

The  years  rush  by  in  sounding  flight, 

I  hear  their  ceaseless  wings  ; 
Their  songs  I  hear,  some  far,  some  near, 

And  thus  the  burden  rings  : 
"  The  morn  has  fled,  the  noon  has  past, 

The  sun  will  soon  be  set, 
The  twilight  fade  to  midnight  shade  ; 

Remember  —  and  Forget !  " 

Remember  all  that  time  has  brought  — 

The  starry  hope  on  high, 
The  strength  attained,  the  courage  gained, 

The  love  that  cannot  die. 
Forget  the  bitter,  brooding  thought,  — 

The  word  too  harshly  said, 
The  living  blame  love  hates  to  name, 

The  frailties  of  the  dead  ! 

"We  have  been  younger,  so  they  say, 

But  let  the  seasons  roll, 
He  doth  not  lack  an  almanac, 

Whose  youth  is  in  his  soul. 
The  snows  may  clog  life's  iron  track, 

But  does  the  axle  tire, 
While  bearing  swift  through  bank  and 
drift 

The  engine's  heart  of  fire  ? 

I  lift  a  goblet  in  my  hand  ; 

If  good  old  wine  it  hold, 
An  ancient  skin  to  keep  it  in, 

Is  just  the  thing,  we  're  told. 
We  're  grayer  than  the  dusty  flask,  — 

We  're  older  than  our  wine ; 
Our  corks  reveal  the  "white  top"  seal, 

The  stamp  of  '29. 

Ah,  Boys !  we  clustered  in  the  dawn, 

To  sever  in  the  dark  ; 
A  merry  crew,  with  loud  halloo, 

We  climbed  our  painted  bark  ; 


We  sailed  her  through  the  four  years' 
cruise, 

We  '11  sail  her  to  the  last, 
Our  dear  old  flag,  though  but  a  rag, 

Still  flying  on  her  mast. 

So  gliding  on,  each  winter's  gale 

Shall  pipe  us  all  on  deck, 
Till,  faint  and  few,  the  gathering  crew 

Creep  o'er  the  parting  wreck, 
Her  sails  and  streamers  spread  aloft 

To  fortune's  rain  or  shine, 
Till  storm  or  sun  shall  all  be  one, 

And  down  goes  TWENTY- NINE  ! 

1856. 

OUR  INDIAN  SUMMER. 

You'll  believe  me,  dear  boys,  'tis  a 
pleasure  to  rise, 

With  a  welcome  like  this  in  your  dar- 
ling old  eyes; 

To  meet  the  same  smiles  and  to  hear 
the  same  tone, 

Which  have  greeted  me  oft  in  the  years 
that  have  flown. 

Were  I  gray  as  the  grayest  old  rat  in 

the  wall, 
My  locks  would  turn  brown  at  the  sight 

of  you  all ; 
If  my  heart  were  as  dry  as  the  shell  on 

the  sand, 
It  would  fill  like  the  goblet  I  hold  in 

my  hand. 

There  are  noontides  of  autumn  when 

summer  returns. 
Though  the  leaves  are  all  garnered  and 

sealed  in  their  urns, 
And  the  bird  on  his  perch  that  was 

silent  so  long, 
Believes  the  sweet  sunshine  and  breaks 

into  song. 


212 


POEMS   OF  THE  CLASS   OF   '29. 


We  have  caged  the  young  birds  of  our 

beautiful  June ; 
Their  plumes  are  still  bright  and  their 

voices  in  tune ; 
One  moment  of  sunshine  from  faces  like 

these 
And   they  sing  as  they  sung  in  the 

green-growing  trees. 

The  voices  of  morning!  how  sweet  is 

their  thrill 
When  the  shadows  have  turned,   and 

the  evening  grows  still ! 
The  text  of  our  lives  may  get  wiser  with 

age, 

But  the  print  was  so  fair  on  its  twen- 
tieth page ! 

Look  off  from  your  goblet  and  up  from 

your  plate ; 
Come,  take  the  last  journal,  and  glance 

at  its  date : 
Then  think  what  we  fellows  should  say 

and  should  do, 
If  the  6  were  a  9  and  the  5  were  a  2. 

Ah,  no !  for  the  shapes  that  would  meet 

with  us  here, 
From  the  far  land  of  shadows,  are  ever 

too  dear ! 
Though  youth  flung  around  us  its  pride 

and  its  charms, 
We  should  see  but  the  comrades  we 

clasped  in  our  arms. 

A  health  to  our  future  —  a  sigh  for  our 

past, 
We  love,  we  remember,  we  hope  to  the 

last; 
And  for  all  the    base    lies    that    the 

almanacs  hold, 
While  we  've  youth  in  our  hearts  we  can 

never  grow  old  ! 


1858. 

MARE  RUBRUM. 

FLASH  out  a  stream  of  blood-red  wine, 

For  I  would  drink  to  other  days, 
And  brighter  shall  their  memory  shine, 

Seen    flaming    through    its    crimson 

blaze! 
The  roses  die,  the  summers  fade, 

But  every  ghost  of  boyhood's  dream 
By  nature's  magic  power  is  laid 

To    sleep    beneath    this    blood-red 
stream ! 

It  filled  the  purple  grapes  that  lay, 

And  drank  the  splendors  of  the  sun, 
Where  the  long  summer's  cloudless  day 

Is  mirrored  in  the  broad  Garonne ; 
It  pictures  still  the  bacchant  shapes 

That    saw    their    hoarded    sunlight 

shed,  — 
The  maidens  dancing  on  the  grapes,  — 

Their  milk-white  ankles  splashed  with 
red. 


Beneath  these  waves  of  crimson  lie, 

In  rosy  fetters  prisoned  fast, 
Those  flitting  shapes  that  never  die,  — 

The  swift-winged  visions  of  the  past. 
Kiss  but  the  crystal's  mystic  rim 

Each  shadow  rends  its  flowery  chain, 
Springs  in  a  bubble  from  its  brim 

And  walks  the  chambers  of  the  brain. 

Poor  beauty  !  Time  and  fortune's  wrong 

No  shape  nor  feature  may  withstand  ; 
Thy  wrecks  are  scattered  all  along, 

Like  emptied  sea-shells  on  the  sand ; 
Yet,  sprinkled  with  this  blushing  rain, 

The  dust  restores  each  blooming  girl, 
As  if  the  sea-shells  moved  again 

Their  glistening  lips  of  pink  and  pearl. 

Here  lies  the  home  of  school- boy  life, 
With  creaking  stair  and  wind-swept 
hall, 


THE  BOYS. 


213 


And,  scarred  by  many  a  truant  knife, 
Our  old  initials  on  the  wall ; 

Here  rest,  their  keen  vibrations  mute, 
The  shout  of  voices  known  so  well, 

The  ringing  laugh,  the  wailing  flute, 
The  chiding  of  the  sharp-tongued  bell. 

Here,  clad  in  burning  robes,  are  laid 

Life's  blossomed  joys,  untimely  shed, 
And  here  those  cherished  forms  have 
strayed 

•  0,i6.  1.  In  the  Appendix  to  Oliver 
RTendell  Holmes's  Complete  Poetical  Works, 
Cambridge  edition,  published  by  Houghton 
Hifflin  Company,  this  identification  of  "The 
Poys"  is  given: 

'  "The  members  of  the  Harvard  College 
;lass  of  1820,  referred  to  in  this  poem,  are : 
'Doctor,'  Francis  Thomas ;  'Judge,'  G.  1 
Bigelow,  chief  justice  of  the  Supreme  Court 
)f  Massachusetts;  'Speaker,'  Hon.  Francis 
B.  Crowninshield.  Speaker  of  the  Massa- 
Shusetts  House  of  Representatives;  'Mr. 
Mayor  '  G.  W.  Richardson  of  Worcester, 
Mass.  ;  'Member  of  Congress,'  Hon.  George 
JT.  Davis ;  'Reverend,'  James  Freeman 
Clarke  ;  'Boy  with  the  grave  mathematical 
look.'  Benjamin  Peirce  ;  'Boy  with  a  three- 
decker  brain,'  Judge  Benjamin  R.  Curtis, 
of  the  Supreme  Court  of  the  United  States ; 
'nice  youngster  of  excellent  pith,'  S.  F. 
Smith,  author  of  'My  Country,  'tis  of 
Thee.'  " 

1859. 

THE  BOYS. 

HAS  there  any  old  fellow  got  mixed 
with  the  boys  ? 

If  there  has,  take  him  out,  without  mak- 
ing a  noise. 

Hang  the  Almanac's  cheat  and  the  Cat- 
alogue's spite  ! 

Old  time  is  a  liar  !  We  're  twenty  to- 
night ! 

We  're  twenty  !    We  're  twenty  I     Who 

says  we  are  more  ? 
He's  tipsy, — young  jackanapes !  —  show 

him  the  door ! 


"Gray    temples  at    twenty?" — Yes! 

white  if  we  please  ; 
Where    the   snow-flakes    fall    thickest 

there  's  nothing  can  freeze  ! 

Was  it  snowing  I  spoke  of  ?  Excuse  the 

mistake  ! 
Look  close,  —  you  will  see  not  a  sign  of 

a  flake  ! 
We  want  some  new  garlands  for  those 

we  have  shed,  — 
And  these  are  white  roses  in  place  of  the 

red. 

We  've  a  trick,  w«  young  fellows,  you 

may  have  been  told, 
Of  talking  (in  public)  as  if  we   were 

old  :  —  J»Vut/«*  e<4  /*r»H* 

That  boy  we  call  "  Doctor,  'j^nd  this  we 

call  "Judge  "  \Jt7> fit^Jtf^f 
It 's  a  neat  little  fiction,  —  of  course  it 's 

all  fudge. 

That  fellow  's  the  "  Speaker," — the  one 

on  the  right ; /X***e-C4, 6.  &+*"** 
"Mr.  Mayor,"  my  young  one,  how  are 

you  to-night  ?  9.  ^  •  &*  *X«/*-*k» 
That 's  our  "Member  of  Congress,"  we 

say  when  we  chaff ;   V  6+  •  7V  i) 
There's  the  "Reverend"   What's   his 

name  ?  —  don't  make  me  laugh 


That  boy  with  the,  grave^mathematical 

look  fijt<*4' SU^*,*-* 
Made  believe  he  had  written  a  wonderful 

book, 
And  the  ROYAL  SOCIETY  thought  it  was 

true  ! 
So  they  chose  him  right  in  ;  a  good  joke 

it  was,  too  ! 

There 's  a  boy,  we  pretend,  with  a  three-^ 
decker  brain,  #e-vw-  /?•  &+*&4 

That  could  harness  a  team  with  a  logical 
chain  ; 


214 


POEMS   OF  THE  CLASS   OF  '29. 


When  he  spoke  for  our  manhood  in  syl- 
labled fire, 

We  called  him  "  The  Justice,"  but  now 
he 's  "  The  Squire." 

And  there 's  a  nice  youngster  of  excel- 
lent pith,  —  5.  f.  iv>vltA 

Fate  tried  to  conceal  him  by  naming 
him  Smith  ; 

But  he  shouted  a  song  for  the  brave  and 
the  free,  — 

Just  read  on  his  medal,  "  My  country," 
"ofthee!" 

You  hear  that  boy  laughing?  —  You 

think  he 's  all  fun  ; 
But  the  angels  laugh,  too,  at  the  good 

he  has  done  ; 
The  children  laugh  loud  as  they  troop  to 

his  call, 
"And  the  poor  man  that  knows  him  laughs 

loudest  of  all  ! 

Yes,  we  're  boys,  —  always  playing  with 
tongue  or  with  pen,  — 

And  I  sometimes  have  asked,  —  Shall  we 
ever  be  men  ? 

Shall  we  always  be  youthful,  and  laugh- 
ing, and  gay, 

Till  the  last  dear  companion  drops  smil- 
ing away  ? 

Then  here 's  to  our  boyhood,  its  gold  and 
its  gray  ! 

The  stars  of  its  winter,  the  dews  of  its 
May  ! 

And  when  we  have  done  with  our  life- 
lasting  toys, 

Dear  Father,  take  care  of  thy  children, 
THE  BOYS ! 

1860. 

LINES. 

I  *M  ashamed,  —  that 's  the  fact,  —  it 's 
a  pitiful  case,  — 


Won't  any  kind  classmate  get  up  in  my 
place  ? 

Just  remember  how  often  I  've  risen  be- 
fore, — 

I  blush  as  I  straighten  my  legs  on  the 
floor  ! 

There  are  stories,  once  pleasing,  too  many 

times  told,  — 
There  are  beauties  once  charming,  too 

fearfully  old,  — 
There  are  voices  we '  ve  heard  till  we  know 

them  so  well, 
Though  they  talked  for  an  hour  they  'd 

have  nothing  to  tell. 

Yet,  Classmates  !    Friends  !    Brothers  ! 

dear  blessed  old  boys  ! 
Made  one  by  a  lifetime  of  sorrows  and 

j°ys» 

What  lips  have  such  sounds  as  the  poor- 
est of  these, 

Though  honeyed,  like  Plato's,  by  musi- 
cal bees  ? 

What  voice  is  so  sweet  and  what  greet- 
ing so  dear 

As  the  simple,  warm  welcome  that  waits 
for  us  here  ? 

The  love  of  our  boyhood  still  breathes  in 
its  tone, 

And  our  hearts  throb  the  answer,  "He  's 
one  of  our  own  !  " 

Nay  !  count  not  our  numbers  ;   some 

sixty  we  know, 
But  these  are  above,  and  those  under  the 

snow  ; 
And  thoughts  are  still  mingled  wherever 

we  meet 
For  those  we  remember  with  those  that 

we  greet. 

We  have  rolled  on  life's  journey,  —  how 

fast  and  how  far  ! 
One  round  of  humanity's  many-wheeled 

car, 


A   VOICE   OF  THE  LOYAL   NORTH.  —  J.   D.   R. 


215 


Hut  up-hill  aiid  down-hill,  through  rat- 
tle and  rub, 

Old,  true  Twenty-uiners  !  we  've  stuck 
to  our  hub  ! 

While  a  brain  lives  to  think,  or  a  bosom 

to  feel, 
We  will  cling  to  it  still  like  the  spokes 

of  a  wheel ! 
And  age,  as  it  chills  us,  shall  fasten  the 

tire 
That  youth  fitted  round  in  his  circle  of 

fire  ! 

1861. 

(JANUARY  SD.) 

A  VOICE  OF  THE  LOYAL  NORTH. 

WE  sing  "Our  Country's"  song  to-night 

With  saddened  voice  and  eye ; 
Her  banner  droops  in  clouded  light 

Beneath  the  wintry  sky. 
We  '11  pledge  her  once  in  golden  wine 

Before  her  stars  have  set : 
Though  dim  one  reddening   orb  may 
shine, 

We  have  a  Country  yet. 

T  were  vain  to  sigh  o'er  errors  past, 

The  fault  of  sires  or  sons ; 
Our  soldier  heard  the  threatening  blast, 

And  spiked  his  useless  guns  ; 
He  saw  the  star-wreathed  ensign  fall, 

By  mad  invaders  torn  ; 
But  saw  it  from  the  bastioned  wall 

That  laughed  their  rage  to  scorn  ! 

What  though  their  angry  cry  is  flung 

Across  the  howling  wave,  — 
They  smite  the  air  with  idle  tongue 

The  gathering  storm  who  brave  ; 
Enough  of  speech  !  the  trumpet  rings  ; 

Be  silent,  patient,  cairn,  — 
God  help  them  if  the  tempest  swings 

The  pine  against  the  palm  ! 


Our  toilsome  years  have  made  us  tame  ; 

Our  strength  has  slept  unfelt ; 
The  furnace-fire  is  slow  to  flame 

That  bids  our  ploughshares  melt ; 
T  is  hard  to  lose  the  bread  they  win 

In  spite  of  Nature's  frowns,  — 
To  drop  the  iron  threads  we  spin 

That  weave  our  web  of  towns, 

To  see  the  rusting  turbines  stand 

Before  the  emptied  flumes, 
To  fold  the  arms  that  flood  the  land 

With  rivers  from  their  looms,  — 
But  harder  still  for  those  who  learn 

The  truth  forgot  so  long ; 
When  once  their  slumbering  passions 
burn, 

The  peaceful  are  the  strong  ! 

The  Lord  have  mercy  on  the  weak, 

And  calm  their  frenzied  ire, 
And  save  our  brothers  ere  they  shriek, 

"  We  played  with  Northern  fire  ! " 
The  eagle  hold  his  mountain  height,  — 

The  tiger  pace  his  den  ! 
Give  all  their  country,  each  his  right ! 

God  keep  us  all !    Amen  ! 

1862. 

J.  D.  B.    loul*~1>'  $  >"* 

THE  friends  that  are, 'and  friends  that 
were, 

What  shallow  waves  divide ! 
I  miss  the  form  for  many  a  year 

Still  seated  at  my  side. 

I  miss  him,  yet  I  feel  him  still 

Amidst  our  faithful  band, 
As  if  not  death  itself  could  chill 

The  warmth  of  friendship's  hand. 

His  story  other  lips  may  tell,  — 

For  me  the  veil  is  drawn  ; 
I  only  know  he  loved  me  well, 

He  loved  me  —  and  is  gone  ! 


216 


POEMS  OF  THE  CLASS   OF   '29. 


1862. 

VOYAGE  OF  THE  GOOD  SHIP  UNION. 

'T  IS  midnight :  through  my  troubled 

dream 

Loud  wails  the  tempest's  cry  ; 
Before  the  gale,  with  tattered  sail, 

A  ship  goes  plunging  by. 
What  name?     Where   bound?  — The 

rocks  around 
Repeat  the  loud  halloo. 

—  The    good   ship   Union,    Southward 

bound  : 
God  help  her  and  her  crew  ! 

And  is  the  old  flag  flying  still 

That  o'er  your  fathers  flew, 
With  bands  of  white  and  rosy  light, 

And  field  of  starry  blue  ? 

—  Ay  !  look  aloft !  its  folds  full  oft 
Have  braved  the  roaring  blast, 

And  still  shall  fly  when  from  the  sky 
This  black  typhoon  has  past ! 

Speak,  pilot  of  the  storm-tost  bark  ! 
May  I  thy  peril  share  ? 

—  O  landsman,  these  are  fearful  seas 
The  brave  alone  may  dare  ! 

—  Nay,  ruler  of  the  rebel  deep, 
What  matters  wind  or  wave  ? 

The  rocks  that  wreck  your  reeling  deck 
Will  leave  me  naught  to  save  ! 

0  landsman,  art  thou  false  or  true  ? 
What  sign  hast  thou  to  show  ? 

—  The  crimson  stains  from  loyal  veins 
That  hold  my  heart-blood's  flow  ! 

— Enough !    what    more    shall    honor 
claim? 

I  know  the  sacred  sign  ; 
Above  thy  head  our  flag  shall  spread, 

Our  ocean  path  be  thine  ! 

The  bark  sails  on  ;  the  Pilgrim's  Cape 
Lies  low  along  her  lee, 


Whose  headland  crooks  its  anchor-flukes 

To  lock  the  shore  and  sea. 
No  treason  here  !  it  cost  too  dear 

To  win  this  barren  realm  ! 
And  true  and  free  the  hands  must  be 

That  hold  the  whaler's  helm  ! 

Still  on  !  Manhattan's  narrowing  bay 

No  Rebel  cruiser  scars  ; 
Her  waters  feel  no  pirate's  keel 

That  flaunts  the  fallen  stars  ! 

—  But    watcli    the    light    on    yonder 

height,  — 

Ay,  pilot,  have  a  care  ! 
Some  lingering  cloud  in  mist  may  shroud 
The  capes  of  Delaware  ! 

Say,  pilot,  what  this  fort  may  be, 

Whose  sentinels  look  down 
From  moated  walls  that  show  the  sea 

Their  deep  embrasures'  frown  ? 
The  Rebel  host  claims  all  the  coast, 

But  these  are  friends,  we  know, 
Whose  footprints  spoil  the  "sacred  soil," 

And  this  is  ? Fort  Monroe  ! 

The    breakers    roar,  —  how  bears    the 

shore  ? 

—  The  traitorous  wreckers'  hands 
Have  quenched  the  blaze  that  poured 

its  rays 
Along  the  Hatteras  sands. 

—  Ha  !  say  not  so  !     I  see  its  glow  ! 
Again  the  shoals  display 

The  beacon  light  that  shines  by  night, 
The  Union  Stars  by  day  ! 

The  good  ship  flies  to  milder  skies, 

The  wave  more  gently  flows, 
The  softening  breeze  wafts  o'er  the  seas 

The  breath  of  Beaufort's  rose. 
What  fold  is  this  the  sweet  winds  kiss, 

Fair-striped  and  many-starred, 
Whose    shadow  palls   these   orphaned 
walls, 

The  twins  of  Beauregard  ? 


"CHOOSE  YOU  THIS   DAY   WHOM   YE  WILL  SERVE."          217 


"Vhat !  heard  you  not  Port  Royal's  doom  ? 

How  the  black  war-ships  came 
And  turned  the  Beaufort  roses'  bloom 

To  redder  wreaths  of  flame  ? 
How  from  Rebellion's  broken  reed 

We  saw  his  emblem  fall, 
As  soon  his  cursed  poison-weed 

Shall  drop  from  Sumter's  wall  ? 

On  !  on  !     Pulaski's  iron  hail 

Falls  harmless  on  Tybee  ! 
The  good  ship  feels  the  freshening  gales, 

She  strikes  the  open  sea  ; 
She  rounds  the  point,  she  threads  the 
keys 

That  guard  the  Land  of  Flowers, 
And  rides  at  last  where  firm  and  fast 

Her  own  Gibraltar  towers  ! 

The  good  ship  Union's  voyage  is  o'er, 

At  anchor  safe  she  swings, 
And  loud  and  clear  with  cheer  on  cheer 

Her  joyous  welcome  rings  : 
Hurrah  !  Hurrah  !  it  shakes  the  wave, 

It  thunders  on  the  shore,  — 
One  flag,  one  land,  one  heart,  one  hand, 

One  Nation,  evermore  ! 


1863. 

"CHOOSE  YOU  THIS   DAY  WHOM  YE 
WILL  SERVE." 

YES,  tyrants,  you  hate  us,  and  fear  while 
you  hate 

The  self-ruling,  chain-breaking,  throne- 
shaking  State  ! 

The  night-birds  dread  morning,  —  your 
instinct  is  true,  — 

The  day-star  of  Freedom  brings  midnight 
for  you  ! 

Why  plead  with  the  deaf  for  the  cause 

of  mankind  ? 
The  owl  hoots  at  noon  that  the  eagle  is 

blind  1 


We  ask  not  your  reasons,  —  't  were  wast- 
ing our  time,  — 
Our  life  is  a  menace,  our  welfare  a  crime  ! 

We  have  battles  to  fight,  we  have  foes  to 

subdue,  — 
Time  waits  not  for  us,  and  we  wait  not 

for  you ! 
The  mower  mows  on,  though  the  adder 

may  writhe 
And  the  copper-head  coil  round  the  blade 

of  his  scythe  ! 

"No  sides  in  this  quarrel,"  your  states- 
men may  urge, 

Of  school-house  and  wages  with  slave- 
pen  and  scourge  !  — 

No  sides  in  the  quarrel  !  proclaim  it  as 
well 

To  the  angels  that  fight  with  the  legions 
of  hell ! 

They  kneel  in  God's  temple,  the  North 

and  the  South, 
With  blood  on  each  weapon  and  prayers 

in  each  mouth. 
Whose  cry  shall    be    answered  ?     Ye 

Heavens,  attend 
The  lords  of  the  lash  as  their  voices 

ascend  ! 

"O  Lord,  we  are  shaped  in  the  image 
of  Thee,  — 

Smite  down  the  base  millions  that  claim 
to  be  free, 

And  lend  Thy  strong  arm  to  Ae  soft- 
handed  race 

Who  eat  not  their  bread  in  the  sweat  of 
their  face  ! " 

So  pleads  the  proud  planter.     What 

echoes  are  these  ? 
The  bay  of  his  bloodhound  is  borne  on 

the  breeze, 
And,  lost  in  the  shriek  of  his  victim's 

despair, 


218 


POEMS   OF   THE   CLASS   OF   '29. 


His  voice  dies  unheard.  —  Hear  the  Fu- 
ritau's  prayer ! 

"  0  Lord,  that  didst  smother  mankind 

in  Thy  flood, 
The  sun  is  as  sackcloth,  the  moon  is  as 

blood, 
The  stars  fall  to  earth  as  untimely  are 

cast 
The  ligs  from  the  fig-tree  that  shakes  in 

the  blast ! 

"  All  nations,  all  tribes  in  whose  nostrils 
is  breath, 

Stand  gazing  at  Sin  as  she  travails  with 
Death  ! 

Lord,  strangle  the  monster  that  strug- 
gles to  birth, 

Or  mock  us  no  more  with  Thy  'Kingdom 
on  Earth  ! ' 

"  If  Ammon  and  Moab  must  reign  in  the 

land 
Thou  gavest  Thine   Israel,   fresh  from 

Thy  hand, 
Call  Baal  and  Ashtaroth  out  of  their 

graves 
To  be  the  new  gods  for  the  empire  of 

slaves !  " 

Whose  God  will  ye  serve,  0  ye  rulers 

of  men  ? 
Will  ye  build  you  new  shrines  in  the 

slave-breeder's  den  ? 
Or  bow  with  the  children  of  light,  as 

they  call 
On  the  Judge  of  the   Earth  and  the 

Father  of  All  ? 

Choose  wisely,  choose  quickly,  for  time 
moves  apace,  — 

Each  day  is  an  age  in  the  life  of  our  race  ! 

Lord,  lead  them  in  love,  ere  they  hasten 
in  fear 

From  the  fast-rising  flood  that  shall  gir- 
dle the  sphere  ! 


F.  W.  C. 

FAST  as  the  rolling  seasons  bring 

The  hour  of  fate  to  those  we  love, 
Each  pearl  that  leaves  the  broken  string 

Is  set  in  Friendship's  crown  above. 
As  narrower  grows  the  earthly  chain, 

The  circle  widens  in  the  sky  ; 
These  are  our  treasures  that  remain, 

But  those  are  stars  that  beam  on  high. 

We  miss — 0,  howwe  miss ! — his  face,  — 

With   trembling    accents   speak   his 

name. 
Earth  cannot  fill  his  shadowed  place 

From  all  her  rolls  of  pride  and  fame ; 
Our  song  has  lost  the  silvery  thread 

That  carolled  through  his  jocund  lips ; 
Our  laugh  is  mute,  our  smile  is  fled, 

And  all  our  sunshine  in  eclipse. 

And  what  and  whence   the  wondrous 
charm 

That  kept  hismanhood  boylike still,  — 
That  life's  hard  censors  could  disarm 

And  lead  them  captive  at  his  will  ? 
His  heart  was  shaped  of  rosier  clay,  — 

His  veins  were  filled  with   ruddier 

fire,  — 
Time  could  not  chill  him,  fortune  sway, 

Nor  toil  with  all  its  burdens  tire. 

His  speech  burst  throbbing  from   its 

fount 

And  set  our  colder  thoughts  aglow, 
As  the  hot  leaping  geysers  mount 

And  falling  melt  the  Iceland  snow. 
Some    word,    perchance,    we    counted 

rash, — 

Some  phrase  our  calmness  might  dis- 
claim, 

Yet 't  was  the  sunset's  lightning's  flash, 
No  angry  bolt,  but  harmless  flame. 


THE   LAST   CHARGE. 


219 


Man  judges  all,  God  knoweth  each  ; 

We  read  the  rule,  He  sees  the  law  ; 
How  oft  his  laughing  children  teach 

The  truths  his  prophets  never  saw  ! 
0    friend,    whose  wisdom    flowered    in 
mirth, 

Our    hearts    are    sad,   our   eyes   are 

dim  ; 
He  gave  thy  smiles  to  brighten  earth,  — 

We  trust  thy  joyous  soul  to  Him  ! 

Alas  !  —  our  weakness  Heaven  forgive  ! 

We  murmur,  even  while  we  trust, 
"  How  long  earth's  breathing  burdens 

live, 
Whose  hearts,   before   they  die,   are 

dust ! " 
But  thou  !  —  through  grief's  untimely 

tears 

We  ask  with  half-reproachful  sigh  — 
"  Couldst  thou  not  watch  a  few  brief 

years 

Till  Friendship  faltered,  '  Thou  mayst 
die'  ?" 

Who  loved  our  boyish  years  so  well  ? 

Who   knew   so   well   their   pleasant 

tales, 
And  all  those  livelier  freaks  could  tell 

Whose  oft-told  story  never  fails  ? 
In  vain  we  turn  our  aching  eyes,  — 

In  vain  we  stretch  our  eager  hands,  — 
Cold  in  his  wintry  shroud  he  lies 

Beneath  the  dreary  drifting  sands  ! 

Ah,  speak  not  thus  !    He,  lies  not  there  ! 

We  see  him,  hear  him  as  of  old  ! 
He     comes !     he     claims    his    wonted 
chair ; 

His  beaming  face  we  still  behold  ! 
His  voice  rings  clear  in  all  our  songs, 

And  loud  his  mirthful  accents  rise  ; 
To  us  our  brother's  life  belongs,  — 

Dear  friends,  a  classmate  never  dies  ! 


1864. 

THE  LAST  CHARGE. 

Now,  men  of  the  North  !  will  you  join 

in  the  strife 
For  country,  for  freedom,  for  honor,  for 

life? 
The  giant  grows  blind  in  his  fury  and 

spite,  — 
One  blow  on  his  forehead  will  settle  the 

fight! 

Flash  full  in  his  eyes  the  blue  lightning 

of  steel, 
And  stun  him  with  cannon-bolts,  peal 

upon  peal ! 
Mount,  troopers,  and  follow  your  game 

to  its  lair, 
As  the  hound  tracks  the  wolf  and  the 

beagle  the  hare  ! 

Blow,  trumpets,  your  summons,  till  slug- 
gards awake  ! 

Beat,  drums,  till  the  roofs  of  the  faint- 
hearted shake  ! 

Yet,  yet,  ere  the  signet  is  stamped  on 
the  scroll, 

Their  names  may  be  traced  on  the  blood- 
sprinkled  roll ! 

Trust  not  the  false  herald  that  painted 

your  shield : 
True  honor  to-day  must  be  sought  on  the 

field! 
Her  scutcheon  s*oo»»ti  white  with  a  blazon 

of  red,  — 
The   life-dro^   of  crimson  for  liberty 

shed  ! 

The  hour  is  at  hand,  and  the  moment 

draws  nigh  ; 
The  dog-star  of  treason  grows  dim  in 

the  sky ; 
Shine  forth  from  the  battle-cloud,  light 

of  the  morn, 


220 


POEMS  OF  THE   CLASS   OF   '29. 


Call  back  the  bright  hour  when  the 
Nation  was  born ! 

The  rivers  of  peace  through  our  valleys 

shall  run, 
As  the  glaciers  of  tyranny  melt  in  the 

sun  ; 
Smite,  smite  the  proud  parricide  down 

from  his  throne,  — 
His  sceptre  once  broken,  the  world  is 

our  own  ! 


1865. 

OUR  OLDEST  FRIEND. 

I  GIVE  you  the   health  of  the  oldest 

friend 

That,  short  of  eternity,  earth  can  lend,  — 
A  friend  so  faithful  and  tried  and  true 
That  nothing  can  wean  him  from  me 

and  you. 

When  first  we  screeched  in  the  sudden 

blaze 
Of  the  daylight's  blinding  and  blasting 

rays, 

And  gulped  at  the  gaseous,  groggy  air, 
This  old,  old  friend  stood  waiting  there. 

And  when,  with  a  kind  of  mortal  strife, 
We  had  gasped  and  choked  into  breath- 
ing life, 

He  watched  by  the  cradle,  day  and  night, 
And  held  our  hands  till  we  stood  upright. 

From  gristle  and  pulp  our  frames  have 

grown 

To  stringy  muscle  and  solid  bone  ; 
While  we  were  changing,  he  altered  not ; 
We  might  forget,  but  he  never  forgot. 

He  came  with  us  to  the  college  class,  — 
Little  cared  he  for  the  steward's  pass  ! 
All  the  rest  must  pay  their  fee, 
But  the  grim  old  dead-head  entered  free. 


He  stayed  with  us  while  we  counted  o'er 
Four  times  each  of  the  seasons  four  ; 
And  with  every  season,  from  year  to  year, 
The  dear  name  Classmate  he  made  more 
dear. 

He  never  leaves  us,  —  he  never  will, 
Till  our  hands  are  cold  and  our  hearts 

are  still ; 
On  birthdays,  and  Christmas,  and  New« 

Year's  too, 
He  always  remembers  both  me  and  you. 

Every  year  this  faithful  friend 

His  little  present  is  sure  to  send  ; 

Every  year,  wheresoe'er  we  be, 

He  wants  a  keepsake  from  you  and  me. 

How  he  loves  us !  he  pats  our  heads, 
And,  lo  !  they  are  gleaming  with  silver 

threads ; 
And  he  's  always  begging  one  lock  of 

hair, 
Till  our  shining  crowns  have  nothing  to 

wear. 

At  length  he  will  tell  us,  one  by  one, 
"  My  child,  your  labor  on  earth  is  done ; 
And  now  you  must  journey  afar  to  see 
My  elder  brother,  —  Eternity !" 

And  so,   when  long,  long  years  have 

passed, 

Some  dear  old  fellow  will  be  the  last,  — 
Never  a  boy  alive  but  he 
Of  all  our  goodly  company  ! 

When  he  lies  down,  but  not  till  then, 
Our  kind  Class- Angel  will  drop  the  pen 
That  writes  in  the  day-book  kept  above 
Our  lifelong  record  of  faith  and  love. 

So  here 's  a  health  in  homely  rhyme 
To  our  oldest  classmate,  Father  Time  ! 
May  our  last  survivor  live  to  be 
As  bald  and  as  wise  and  as  tough  as  he! 


SHERMAN  'S  IN  SAVANNAH.  —  MY  ANNUAL. 


221 


1865. 

SHERMAN'S  IN  SAVANNAH. 

A  HALF-RHYMED   IMPROMPTU. 

LIKE  the  tribes  of  Israel, 

Fed  on  quails  and  manna, 
Sherman  and  his  glorious  band 
Journeyed  through  the  rebel  laud, 
Fed  from  Heaven's  all-bounteous  hand, 

Marching  on  Savannah ! 

As  the  moving  pillar  shone, 

Streamed  the  starry  banner 
All  day  long  in  rosy  light, 
Flaming  splendor  all  the  night, 
Till  it  swooped  in  eagle  flight 

Down  on  doomed  Savannah ! 

Glory  be  to  God  on  high ! 

Shout  the  loud  Hosanna ! 
Treason's  wilderness  is  past, 
Canaan's  shore  is  won  at  last, 
Peal  a  nation's  trumpet-blast,  — 

Sherman  's  in  Savannah ! 

Soon  shall  Richmond's  tough  old  hide 

Find  a  tough  old  tanner ! 
Soon  from  every  rebel  wall 
Shall  the  rag  of  treason  fall, 
Till  our  banner  flaps  o'er  all 

As  it  crowns  Savannah ! 


1866. 

MY  ANNUAL 

How  long  will  this  harp  which  you  once 
loved  to  hear 

Cheat  your  lips  of  a  smile  or  your  eyes 
of  a  tear  ? 

How  long  stir  the  echoes  it  wakened  of 
old, 

While  its  strings  were  unbroken,  untar- 
nished its  gold  ? 


Dear  friends  of  my  boyhood,  my  words 

do  you  wrong ; 
The  heart,  the  heart  only,  shall  throb 

in  my  song ; 
It  reads  the  kind  answer  that  looks  from 

your  eyes,  — 
"We  will  bid  our  old  harper  play  on 

till  he  dies." 

Though   Youth,    the    fair    angel    that 

looked  o'er  the  strings, 
Has  lost  the  bright  glory  that  gleamed 

on  his  wings, 
Though  the  freshness  of  morning  has 

passed  from  its  tone, 
It  is  still  the  old  harp  that  was  always 

your  own. 

I  claim  not  its  music,  —  each  note  it 

affords 
I  strike  from  your  heart-strings,  that 

lend  me  its  chords; 
I  know  you  will  listen  and  love  to  the 

last, 
For  it  trembles  and  thrills  with   the 

voice  of  your  past. 

Ah,  brothers !  dear  brothers  !  the  harp 
that  I  hold 

No  craftsman  could  string  and  no  artisan 
mould ; 

He  shaped  it,  He  strung  it,  who  fash- 
ioned the  lyres 

That  ring  with  the  hymns  of  the  sera- 
phim choirs. 

Not  mine  are  the  visions  of  beauty  it 

brings, 
Not  mine  the  faint  fragrance  around  it 

that  clings; 
Those  shapes  are  the  phantoms  of  years 

that  are  fled, 
Those  sweets  breathe  from  roses  your 

summers  have  shed. 


222 


POEMS   OF  THE   CLASS   OF   '29. 


Each  hour  of  the  past  lends  its  tribute 
to  this, 

Till  it  blooms  like  a  bower  in  the  Gar- 
den of  Bliss ; 

The  thorn  and  the  thistle  may  grow  as 
they  will, 

Where  Friendship  unfolds  there  is  Para- 
dise still. 

The  bird  wanders  careless  while  summer 

is  green, 
The  leaf-hidden  cradle  that  rocked  him 

unseen  ; 
When  Autumn's  rude  fingers  the  woods 

have  undressed, 
The  boughs  may  look  bare,  but  they 

show  him  his  nest. 

Too  precious  these  moments  !  the  lustre 

they  fling 
Is  the  light  of  our  year,  is  the  gem  of 

its  ring, 
So  brimming  with  sunshine,  we  almost 

forget 
The  rays  it  has  lost,  and  its  border  of  jet. 

While  round  us  the  many-hued  halo  is 

shed, 
How  dear  are  the  living,  how  near  are 

the  dead ! 
One  circle,  scarce  broken,  these  waiting 

below, 
Those  walking  the   shores  where    the 

asphodels  blow ! 

Not  life  shall  enlarge  it  nor  death  shall 

divide,  — 
No  brother  new-born  finds  his  place  at 

my  side  ; 
No  titles  shall  freeze  us,  no  grandeurs 

infest, 
His  Honor,  His  Worship,  are  boys  like 

the  rest. 

Some  won  the  world's  homage,  their 
names  we  hold  dear,  — 


But  Friendship,  not  Fame,  is  the  coun- 
tersign here ; 

Make  room  by  the  conqueror  crowned 
in  the  strife 

For  the  comrade  that  limps  from  the 
battle  of  life ! 

What  tongue  talks  of  battle  ?    Too  long 

we  have  heard 

In  sorrow,  in  anguish,  that  terrible  word; 
It  reddened  the  sunshine,  it  crimsoned 

the  wave, 
It  sprinkled  our  doors  with  the  blood 

of  our  brave. 

Peace,   Peace  comes  at  last,  with  her 

garland  of  white; 
Peace  broods  in  all  hearts  as  we  gather 

to-night ; 
The  blazon  of  Union  spreads  full  in  the 


We  echo  its  words,  —  We  are  one !    We 
are  one ! 

1867. 

ALL  HERE. 

IT  is  not  what  we  say  or  sing, 

That  keeps  our  charm  so  long  un- 
broken, 
Though  every  lightest  leaf  we  bring 

May  touch  the  heart  as  friendship's 

token ; 
Not  what  we  sing  or  what  we  say 

Can  make  us  dearer  to  each  other ; 
We  love  the  singer  and  his  lay, 

But  love  as  well  the  silent  brother. 

Yet  bring  whate'er  your  garden  grows, 
Thrice  welcome  to   our  smiles   and 
praises ; 

Thanks  for  the  myrtle  and  the  rose, 
Thanks  for  the  marigolds  and  daisies; 

One  flower  erelong  we  all  shall  claim, 
Alas  !  unloved  of  Amaryllis  — 


ONCE   MORE. 


223 


Nature's  last  blossom  —  need  I  name 
The  wreath  of  threescore's  silver  lilies  ? 

How  many,  brothers,  meet  to-night 

Around  our  boyhood's  covered  embers? 
Go  read  the  treasured  names  aright 

The  old  triennial  list  remembers  : 
Though  twenty  wear  the  starry  sign 

That  tells  a  life  has  broke  its  tether, 
The  fifty-eight  of  'twenty-nine  — 

God  bless  THE  BOYS  !  —  are  all  to- 
gether ! 

These  come  with  joyous  look  and  word, 

With    friendly    grasp    and    cheerful 

greeting,  — 
Those  smile  unseen,  and  move  unheard, 

The  angel  guests  of  every  meeting ; 
They  cast  no  shadow  in  the  flame 

That  flushes  from  the  gilded  lustre, 
But  count  us  —  we  are  still  the  same  ; 

One  earthly  band,  one  heavenly  clus- 
ter ! 

Love  dies  not  when  he  bows  his  head 

To  pass  beyond  the  narrow  portals,  — 
The  light  these  glowing  moments  shed 
Wakes  from  their  sleep  our  lost  im- 
mortals ; 

They  come  as  in  their  joyous  prime, 
Before  their  morning  days  were  num- 
bered, — 

Death  stays  the  envious  hand  of  Time,  — 
The  eyes  have  not  grown  dim  that 
slumbered ! 

The  paths  that  loving  souls  have  trod 
Arch  o'er  the  dust  where  worldlings 

grovel 
High  as  the  zenith  o'er  the  sod,  — 

The  cross  above  the  Sexton's  shovel ! 
We  rise  beyond  the  realms  of  day  ; 
They  seem  to  stoop  from  spheres  of 
glory 


With  us  one  happy  hour  to  stray, 
While  youth  comes  back  in  song  and 
story. 

Ah  !  ours  is  friendship  true  as  steel 
That  war  has  tried  in  edge  and  tem- 
per; 

It  writes  upon  its  sacred  seal 
The  priest's    ubique  —  omnes  —  sem- 
per/ 

It  lends  the  sky  a  fairer  sun 
That  cheers  our  lives  with  rays  as 

steady 

As  if  our  footsteps  had  begun 
To  print  the  golden  streets  already  ! 

The   tangling  years  have  clinched  its 
knot 

Too  fast  for  mortal  strength  to  sunder ; 
The  lightning  bolts  of  noon  are  shot ; 

No  fear  of  evening's  idle  thunder  ! 
Too  late  !  too  late  !  —  no  graceless  hand 

Shall  stretch  its  cords  in  vain  endeavor 
To  rive  the  close  encircling  band 

That  made  and  keeps  us  one  forever  ! 

So  when  upon  the  fated  scroll 

The  falling  stars  have  all  descended, 
And,  blotted  from  the  breathing  roll, 

Our  little  page  of  life  is  ended, 
We  ask  but  one  memorial  line 

Traced  on  thy  tablet,  Gracious  Mother : 
"  My  children.     Boys  of  '29. 

In  pace.  How  they  loved  each  other!" 


1868. 

ONCE  MORE. 

"  Will  I  come  ?  "  That  is  pleasant !  1 
beg  to  inquire 

If  the  gun  that  I  carry  has  ever  missed 
fire? 

And  which  was  the  muster-roll  —  men- 
tion but  one  — 


224 


POEMS   OF  THE  CLASS   OF   '29. 


That  missed  your  old  comrade  who  car- 
ries the  gun  ? 

You  see  me  as  always,  my  hand  on  the 

lock, 
The  cap  on  the  nipple,  the  hammer  full 

cock ; 
It  is  rusty,  some  tell  me ;  I  heed  not 

the  scoff ; 
It  is  battered  and  bruised,  but  it  always 

goes  off ! 

—  "Is  it  loaded?"  I'll  bet  you!   What 

does  n't  it  hold  ? 

Rammed  full  to  the  muzzle  with  memo- 
ries untold  ; 

Why,  it  scares  me  to  fire,  lest  the  pieces 
should  fly 

Like  the  cannons  that  burst  on  the 
Fourth  of  July  ! 

One  charge  is  a  remnant  of  College-day 

dreams 
(Its  wadding  is  made  of  forensics  and 

themes) ; 
Ah,  visions  of  fame  !  what  a  flash  in  the 

pan 
As  the  trigger  was  pulled  by  each  clever 

young  man ! 

And  love  !  Bless  my  stars,  what  a  car- 
tridge is  there  ! 

With  a  wadding  of  rose-leaves  and  rib- 
bons and  hair,  — 

All  crammed  in  one  verse  to  go  off  at  a 
shot! 

—  Were  there  ever  such  sweethearts  ? 

Of  course  there  were  not  ! 

And  next,  —  what  a  load  !  it  will  split 
the  old  gun,  — 

Three  fingers,  — four  fingers,  — fire  fin- 
gers of  fun  ! 

Come  tell  me,  gray  sages,  for  mischief 
and  noise 

Was  there  ever  a  lot  like  us  fellows, 
"The  Boys"? 


Bump  !  bump  !  down  the  staircase  the 

cannon-ball  goes,  — 
Aha,  old  Professor  !     Look  out  for  your 

toes  ! 
Don't  think,  my  poor  Tutor,  to  sleep  in 

your  bed,  — 
Two    ' '  Boys  "  — 'twenty-niners  —  room 

over  your  head ! 

Remember  the  nights  when  the  tar-barrel 
blazed  ! 

From  red  "  Massachusetts  "  the  war-cry 
was  raised  ; 

And  "Plollis"  and  "Stoughton"  re- 
echoed the  call ; 

Till? poked  his  head  out  of  Hoi- 

worthy  Hall  ! 

Old  P ,  as  we  called  him,  —  at  fifty 

or  so,  — 
Not  exactly  a  bud,  but  not  quite  in  full 

blow  ; 
In  ripening  manhood,  suppose  we  should 

say, 
Just  nearing  his  prime,  as  we  boys  are 

to-day  ! 

0,  say,  can  you  look  through  the  vista 
of  age 

To  the  time  when  old  Morse  drove  the 
regular  stage  ? 

When  Lyon  told  tales  of  the  long-van- 
ished years, 

And  Lenox  crept  round  with  the  rings 
in  his  ears  ? 

And  dost  thou,  my  brother,  remember 
indeed 

The  days  of  our  dealings  with  Willard 
and  Read  ? 

When  "Dolly"  was  kicking  and  run- 
ning away, 

And  punch  came  up  smoking  on  Fille- 
brown's  tray  ? 

But  where  are  the  Tutors,  my  brother, 
Otell!  — 


THE   OLD   CRUISER. 


225 


And  where  the  Professors,  remembered 

so  well  ? 
The  sturdy  old  Grecian  of  Holworthy 

Hall, 
And  Latin,    and   Logic,   and  Hebrew, 

and  all  ? 

—  "  They  are  dead,  the  old  fellows"  (we 

called  them  so  then, 
Though  we  since  have  found  out  they 
were  lusty  young  men). 

—  They  are  dead,  do  you  tell  me  ?  —  but 

how  do  you  know  ? 

You  've  filled  once  too  often.  I  doubt  if 
it  's  so. 

I  'm  thinking.     I  'm  thinking.     Is  this 

'sixty-eight  ? 
It 's  not  quite  so  clear.     It   admits  of 

debate. 
I  may  have  been  dreaming.     I  rather 

incline 
To  think  —  yes,    I   'm   certain  —  it  is 

'twenty-nine  ! 

"  By  Zhorzhe  ! "  —  as  friend  Sales  is  ac- 
customed to  cry,  — 

You  tell  me  they  're  dead,  but  I  know 
it 's  a  lie  ! 

Is  Jackson  not  President  1  —  What  was 
't  you  said  ? 

It  can't  be  ;  you  're  joking  ;  what,  —  all 
of  'em  dead  ? 

Jim,  —  Harry,  —  Fred,  —  Isaac,  —  all 

gone  from  our  side  ? 
They  could  n't  have  left  us,  —  no,  not  if 

they  tried. 

—  Look,  —  there  's  our  old  Prases,  — 

he  can't  find  his  text ; 

—  See,  —  P rubs  his  leg,  as  he  growls 

out,  "  The  next  I" 

I -told  you 't  was  nonsense.  Joe,  give 
us  a  song  ! 


Go  harness  up  "Dolly,"  and  fetch  her 

along  !  — 
Dead  !     Dead  !     You  false  graybeard,  I 

swear  they  are  not ! 
Hurrah  for  Old  Hickory  !  —  0,  I  forgot ! 

Well,  one  we  have  with  us  (how  could 

he  contrive 
To  deal  with  us  youngsters  and  still  to 

survive  ?) 
Who  wore  for  our  guidance  authority's 

robe,  — 
No  wonder  he  took  to  the  study  of  Job  ! 

—  And  now  as  my  load  was  uncommonly 

large, 

Let  me  taper  it  off  with  a  classical  charge ; 
When  that  has  gone  off,  I  shall  drop  my 

old  gun  — 
And  then  stand  at  ease,  for  my  service 

is  done. 

Bibamus    ad    Classem    vocatam  "  The 

Soys  " 
Et    eorum     Tutorem    cui    nomen    est 

"  Noyes"  ; 

Et  floreant,  valeant,  vigeant  tarn, 
Non  Peircius  ipse  enumeret  quam  I 

1869. 

THE  OLD  CRUISER. 

HERE  's  the  old  cruiser,  'Twenty-nine, 
Forty  times  she  's  crossed  the  line  ; 
Same  old  masts  and  sails  and  crew, 
Tight  and  tough  and  as  good  as  new. 

Into  the  harbor  she  bravely  steers 
Just    as   she  's  done  for    these    forty 

years, — 

Over  her  anchor  goes,  splash  and  clang  ! 
Down  her  sails  drop,  rattle  and  bang  ! 

Comes  a  vessel  out  of  the  dock 
Fresh  and  spry  as  a  fighting-cock, 


226 


POEMS   OF  THE  CLASS   OF  '29. 


Feathered  with  sails  and  spurred  with 

steam, 
Heading  out  of  the  classic  stream. 

Crew  of  a  hundred  all  aboard, 
Every  man  as  fine  as  a  lord. 
Gay  they  look  and  proud  they  feel, 
Bowling  along  on  even  keel. 

On  they  float  with  wind  and  tide,  — 
Gain  at  last  the  old  ship's  side ; 
Every  man  looks  down  in  turn,  — 
Beads  the  name  that 's  on  her  stern. 

"  Twenty-nine  !  —  Diable  you  say ! 
That  was  in  Skipper  Kirkland's  day ! 
What  was  the  Flying  Dutchman's  name  ? 
This  old  rover  must  be  the  same. 

"  Ho  !   you  Boatswain  that  walks  the 

deck, 

How  does  it  happen  you  're  not  a  wreck  ? 
One  and  another  have  come  to  grief, 
How  have  you  dodged  by  rock  and  reef?" 

—  Boatswain,  lifting  one  knowing  lid, 
Hitches  his  breeches  and  shifts  his  quid : 
"Hey?    What  is  it?    Who  's  come  to 

grief? 
Louder,  young  swab,  I  'm  a  little  deaf." 

"  I  say,  old  fellow,  what  keeps  your  boat 
With  all  you  jolly  old  boys  afloat, 
When  scores  of  vessels  as  good  as  she 
Have  swallowed  the  salt  of  the  bitter 
sea? 

"  Many  a  crew  from  many  a  craft 
Goes  drifting  by  on  -a.  broken  raft 
Pieced  from  a  vessel  that  clove  the  brine 
Taller  and  prouder  than  'Twenty-nine. 

"  Some  capsized  in  an  angry  breeze, 
Some  were  lost  in  the  narrow  seas, 
Some  on  snags  and  some  on  sands 
Struck  and  perished  and  lost  their  hands. 


"  Tell  us  young  ones,  you  gray  old  man, 
What  is  your  secret,  if  you  can. 
We  have  a  ship  as  good  as  you, 
Show  us  how  to  keep  our  crew." 

So  in  his  ear  the  youngster  cries  ; 
Then  the  gray  Boatswain  straight  re- 
plies :  — 

"All  your  crew  be  sure  you  know,  — 
Never  let  one  of  your  shipmates  go. 

"  If  he  leaves  you,  change  your  tack, 
Follow  him  close  and  fetch  him  back  ; 
When  you  've  hauled  him  in  at  last, 
Grapple  his  flipper  and  hold  him  fast. 

"  If  you  've  wronged  him,  speak  liim 

fair, 

Say  you  're  sorry  and  make  it  square  ; 
If  he 's  wronged  you,  wink  so  tight 
None  of  you  see  what 's  plain  in  sight. 

"When  the  world  goes  hard  and  wrong, 
Lend  a  hand  to  help  him  along  ; 
When  his  stockings  have  holes  to  darn, 
Don't  you  grudge  him  your  ball  of  yarn. 

"  Once  in  a  twelvemonth,  come  what 

may, 

Anchor  your  ship  in  a  quiet  bay, 
Call  all  hands  and  read  the  log, 
And  give  'em  a  taste  of  grub  and  grog. 

"  Stick  to  each  other  through  thick  and 

thin  ; 

All  the  closer  as  age  leaks  in  ; 
Squalls  will  blow  and  clouds  will  frown, 
But  stay  by  your  ship  till  you  all  go 

down  ! " 

ADDED    FOK   THE   ALUMNI   MEETING, 
JUNE  29,  1869. 

So  the  gray  Boatswain  of  'Twenty-nine 
Piped  to  "The  Boys"  as  they  crosse/ 
the  line ; 


HYMN   FOR  THE   CLASS-MEETING.  —  EVEN-SONG. 


227 


Round  the  cabin  sat  thirty  guests, 
Babes  of  the  nurse  with   a  thousand 
breasts. 

There  were  the  judges,  grave  and  grand, 
Flanked  by  the  priests  on  either  hand  ; 
There  was  the  lord  of  wealth  untold, 
And  the  dear  good  fellow  in  broadcloth 
old. 

Thirty  men,  from  twenty  towns, 

Sires    and    grandsires    with     silvered 

crowns,  — 

Thirty  school -boys  all  in  a  row,  — 
Bens  and  Georges  and  Bill  and  Joe. 

In  thirty  goblets  the  wine  was  poured, 
But    threescore    gathered    around    the 

board,  — 

For  lo  !  at  the  side  of  every  chair 
A  shadow  hovered  —  we  all  were  there  ! 


1869. 

HYMN  FOR  THE  CLASS-MEETING. 

THOU  Gracious  Power,  whose  mercy  lends 
The  light  of  home,  the  smile  of  friends, 
Our  gathered  flock  thine  arms  infold 
As  in  the  peaceful  days  of  old. 

Wilt  thou  not  hear  us  while  we  raise, 
In  sweet  accord  of  solemn  praise, 
The  voices  that  have  mingled  long 
In  joyous  flow  of  mirth  and  song  ? 

For  all  the  blessings  life  has  brought, 
For  all  its  sorrowing  hours  have  taught, 
For  all  we  mourn,  for  all  we  keep, 
The  hands  we  clasp,   the  loved   that 
sleep ; 

The  noontide  sunshine  of  the  past, 
These  brief,  bright  moments  fading  fast, 
The  stars  that  gild  our  darkening  years, 
The  twilight  ray  from  holier  spheres  ; 


We  thank  thee,  Father  !  let  thy  grace 
Our  narrowing  circle  still  embrace, 
Thy  mercy  shed  its  heavenly  store, 
Thy  peace  be  with  us  evermore  ! 

187O. 

EVEN-SONG. 

IT  may  be,  yes,  it  must  be,  Time  that 

brings 

An  end  to  mortal  things, 
That  sends  the  beggar  Winter  in  the 

train 

Of  Autumn's  burdened  wain,  — 
Time,   that  is  heir  of  all  our  earthly 

state, 

And  knoweth  well  to  wait 
Till  sea  hath  tiirned  to  shore  and  shore 

to  sea, 

If  so  it  need  must  be, 
Ere  he  make  good  his  claim  and  call  his 

own 

Old  empires  overthrown,  — 
Time,  who  can  find  no  heavenly  orb  too 

large 

To  hold  its  fee  in  charge, 
Nor  any  motes  that  fill  its  beam  so 

small, 

But  he  shall  care  for  all,  — 
It  may  be,   must  be,  —  yes,  he  soon 

shall  tire 
This  hand  that  holds  the  lyre. 

Then  ye  who  listened  in  that  earlier  day 

When  to  my  careless  lay 
I  matched  its  chords  and  stole  their  first- 
born thrill, 

With  untaught  rudest  skill 
Vexing  a  treble  from  the  slender  strings 

Thin  as  the  locust  sings 
When  the  shrill-crying  child  of  sum- 
mer's heat 

Pipes  from  its  leafy  seat, 
Ths  dim  pavilion  of  embowering  green 


228 


POEMS   OF  THE   CLASS   OF   '29. 


Beneath  whose  shadowy  screen 
The  small  sopranist  tries  his  single  note 

Against  the  song-bird's  throat, 
And  all  the  echoes  listen,  but  in  vain  ; 

They  hear  no  answering  strain,  — 
Then  ye  who  listened  in  that  earlier  day 

Shall  sadly  turn  away, 

Saying,  "The fire  burns  low,  the  hearth 

is  cold 

That  warmed  our  blood  of  old  ; 
Cover  its  embers  and  its  half  -  burnt 

brands, 

And  let  us  stretch  our  hands 
Over  a  brighter  and  fresh-kindled  flame ; 

Lo,  this  is  not  the  same, 
The  joyous  singer  of  our  morning  time, 

Flushed  high  with  lusty  rhyme ! 
Speak  kindly,   for  he  bears  a  human 

heart, 

But  whisper  him  apart,  — 
Tell  him  the  woods  their  autumn  robes 

have  shed 

And  all  their  birds  have  fled, 
And  shouting  winds  unbuild  the  naked 

nests 

They  warmed  with  patient  breasts  ; 
Tell  him  the  sky  is  dark,  the  summer 

o'er, 
And  bid  him  sing  no  more  ! 

Ah,  welladay  !  if  words  so  cruel-kind 

A  listening  ear  might  find  ! 
But  who  that  hears  the  music  in  his  soul 

Of  rhythmic  waves  that  roll 
Crested  with  gleams  of  fire,  and  as  they 

flow 

Stir  all  the  deeps  below 
Till  the  great  pearls  no  calm  might  ever 

reach 

Leap  glistening  on  the  beach,  — 
Who  that  has  known  the  passion  and 

the  pain, 

The  rush  through  heart  and  brain, 
The  joy  so  like  a  pang  his  hand  is  pressed 


Hard  on  his  throbbing  breast, 
When  thou,  whose  smile  is  life  and  bliss 

and  fame 

Hast  set  his  pulse  aflame, 
Muse  of  the  lyre  !  can  say  farewell  to 

thee? 
Alas  !  and  must  it  be  ? 

In  many  a  clime,  in  many  a  stately 

tongue, 

The  mighty  bards  have  sung  ; 
To  these  the  immemorial  thrones  belong 

And  purple  robes  of  song ; 
Yet  the  slight  minstrel  loves  the  slender 

tone 

His  lips  may  call  his  own, 
And  finds  the  measure  of  the  verse  more 

«sweet 

Timed  by  his  pulse's  beat, 
Than  all  the  hyranings  of  the  laurelled 

throng. 

Say  not  I  do  him  wrong, 
For  Nature  spoils  her  warblers,  —  them 

she  feeds 

In  lotus-growing  meads 
And  pours  them  subtle  draughts  from 

haunted  streams 
That  fill  their  souls  with  dreams. 

Full  well  I  know  the  gracious  mother's 

wiles 

And  dear  delusive  smiles  ! 
No  callow  fledgling  of  her  singing  brood 

But  tastes  that  witching  food, 
And  hearing  overhead  the  eagle's  wing, 

And  how  the  thrushes  sing, 
Vents  his  exiguous  chirp,  and  from  his 

nest 

Flaps  forth  —  we  know  the  rest. 
I   own   the   weakness   of   the   tuneful 

kind, — 

Are  not  all  harpers  blind  ? 
I  sang  too  early,  must  I  sing  too  late  ? 

The  lengthening  shadows  wait 
The  first  pale  stars  of  twilight,  —  yet 
how  sweet 


THE   SMILING  LISTENER. 


229 


The  flattering  whisper's  cheat,  — 
"  Thou  hast  the  fire  no  evening  chill 

can  tame, 
Whose  coals  outlast  its  flame  !  " 

Farewell,  ye  carols  of  the  laughing  morn, 

Of  earliest  sunshine  born  ! 
The  sower  flings  the  seed  and  looks  not 

back 

Along  his  furrowed  track ; 
The  reaper  leaves  the  stalks  for  other 

hands 

To  gird  with  circling  bands  ; 
The  wind,  earth's  careless  servant,  truant- 
born, 

Blows  clean  the  beaten  corn 
And  quits  the  thresher's  floor,  and  goes 

his  way 

To  sport  with  ocean's  spray  ; 
The  headlong-stumbling  rivulet  scram- 
bling down 

To  wash  the  sea-girt  town, 
Still  babbling  of  the  green  and  billowy 

waste 

Whose  salt  he  longs  to  taste, 
Ere  his  warm  wave  its  chilling  clasp  may 

feel 
Has  twirled  the  miller's  wheel. 

The  song  has  done  its  task  that  makes 

us  bold 

With  secrets  else  untold,  — 
And  mine  has  run  its  errand  ;  through 

the  dews 

I  tracked  the  flying  Muse  ; 
The  daughter  of  the  morning  touched  my 

lips 

With  roseate  finger-tips ; 
Whether  I  would  or  would  not,  I  must 

sing 

With  the  new  choirs  of  spring  •, 
Now,  as  I  watch  the  fading  autumn  day 

And  trill  my  softened  lay, 
I  think  of  all  that  listened,  and  of  one 
For  whom  a  brighter  sun 


Dawned  at  high  summer's  noon.     Ah, 

comrades  dear, 
Are  not  all  gathered  here  ? 
Our  hearts  have  answered.  —  Yes  !  they 

hear  our  call : 
All  gathered  here !  all !  all ! 

1871. 

THE  SMILING  LISTENER. 

PRECISELY.     I  see  it.     You  all  want  to 

say 
That  a  tear  is  too  sad  and  a  laugh  is  too 

gay; 

You  could  stand  a  faint  smile,  you  could 

manage  a  sigh, 
But  you  value  your  ribs,  and  you  don't 

want  to  cry. 

And  why  at  our  feast  of  the  clasping  of 
hands 

Need  we  turn  on  the  stream  of  our  lach- 
rymal glands? 

Though  we  see  the  white  breakers  of  age 
on  our  bow, 

Let  us  take  a  good  pull  in  the  jolly-boat 
now ! 

It 's  hard  if  a  fellow  cannot  feel  content 
When  a  banquet  like  this  does  n't  cost 

him  a  cent, 
When  his  goblet  and  plate  he  may  empty 

at  will, 
And  our  kind  Class  Committee  will  settle 

the  bill. 

And  here  's  your  old  friend  the  identical 

bard 
Who  has  rhymed  and  recited  you  verse 

by  the  yard 
Since  the  days  of  the  empire  of  Andrew 

the  First 
Till  you  're  full  to  the  brim  and  feel  ready 

to  burst. 


230 


POEMS   OF  THE   CLASS   OF  '29. 


It 's  awful  to  think  of,  —  how  year  after 

year 
With  his  piece  in  his  pocket  he  waits  for 

you  here  ; 
No  matter  who  's  missing,  there  always 

is  one 
To  lug  out  his  manuscript,  sure  as  a  gun. 

"  Why  won't  he  stop  writing  ? "  Hu- 
manity cries  : 

The  answer  is  briefly,  "  He  can't  if  he 
tries ; 

He  has  played  with  his  foolish  old  feather 
so  long, 

That  the  goose-quill  in  spite  of  him 
cackles  in  song." 

You  have  watched  him  with  patience 

from  morning  to  dusk 
Since  the  tassel  was  bright  o'er  the  green 

of  the  husk, 
And  now  —  it 's  too  bad —  it 's  a  pitiful 

job  — 
He  has  shelled  the  ripe  ear  till  he 's  come 

to  the  cob. 

I  see  one  face  beaming  —  it  listens  so 

well 
There  must  be  some  music  yet  left  in 

my  shell  — 
The  wine  of  my  soul  is  not  thick  on  the 

lees  ; 
One  string  is  unbroken,  one  friend  I  can 

please  ! 

Dear  comrade,  the  sunshine  of  seasons 
gone  by 

Looks  out  from  your  tender  and  tear- 
moistened  eye, 

A  pharos  of  love  on  an  ice-girdled 
coast,  — 

Kind  soul  !  —  Don't  you  hear  me  ?  — 
He 's  deaf  as  a  post ! 

Can  it  be  one  of  Nature's  benevolent 
tricks 


That  you  grow  hard  of  hearing  as  I  grow 

prolix  ? 
And  that  look  of  delight  which  would 

angels  beguile 
Is  the  deaf  man's  prolonged  unintelligent 

smile  ? 

Ah  !  the  ear  may  grow  dull,  and  the  eye 

may  wax  dim, 
But  they  still  know  a  classmate  —  they 

can't  mistake  him  ; 
There  is  something  to  tell  us,  "  That 's 

one  of  our  band," 
Though  we  groped  in  the  dark  for  a  touch 

of  his  hand. 

Well,  Time  with  his  snuffers  is  prowling 
about 

And  his  shaky  old  fingers  will  soon  snuff 
us  out ; 

There 's  a  hint  for  us  all  in  each  pendu- 
lum tick, 

For  we  're  low  in  the  tallow  and  long  in 
the  wick. 

You  remember  Rossini  —  you  've  been 

at  the  play  ? 
How  his  overture-endings  keep  crashing 

away 
Till  you  think,  "  It 's  all  over  —  it  can't 

but  stop  now  — 
That 's  the  screech  and  the  bang  of  the 

final  bow-wow." 

And  you  find  you  're  mistaken  ;  there 's 
lots  more  to  come, 

More  banging,  more  screeching  of  fiddle 
and  drum, 

Till  when  the  last  ending  is  finished  and 
done, 

You  feel  like  a  horse  when  the  winning- 
post  's  won. 

So  I,  who  have  sung  to  you,  merry  or 
sad, 


OUK  SWEET   SINGER. 


231 


Since  the  days  when  they  called  me  a 
promising  lad, 

Though  I  've  made  you  more  rhymes 
than  a  tutor  could  scan, 

Have  a  few  more  still  left,  like  the  razor- 
strop  man. 

Now  pray  don't  be  frightened —  I  'm 

ready  to  stop 

My  gall  oping  anapests'  clatter  and  pop — 
In  fact,  if  you  say  so,  retire  from  to-day 
To  the  garret  I  left,  on  a  poet's  half-pay. 

And  yet  —  I  can't  help  it  —  perhaps  — 

who  can  tell  ? 
You  might  miss  the  poor  singer  you 

treated  so  well, 
And  confess  you  could  stand  him  five 

minutes  or  so, 
"It  was  so  like  old  times  we  remember, 

you  know." 

'T  is  not  that  the  music  can  signify 

much. 
But  then  there  are  chords  that  awake 

with  a  touch,  — 
And  our  hearts  can  find  echoes  of  sorrow 

and  joy 
To  the  winch  of  the  minstrel  who  hails 

from  Savoy. 

So  this  hand-organ  tune  that  I  cheerfully 
grind 

May  bring  the  old  places  and  faces  to 
mind, 

And  seen  in  the  light  of  the  past  we  re- 
call 

The  flowers  that  have  faded  bloom  fair- 
est of  all ! 

1872. 

OUR   SWEET   SINGER. 

« 
J.  A. 

ONE  memory  trembles  on  our  lips : 
It  throbs  in  every  breast ; 


In  tear-dimmed  eyes,  in  mirth's  eclipse, 
The  shadow  stands  confessed. 

0  silent  voice,  that  cheered  so  long 
Our  manhood's  marching  day, 

Without  thy  breath  of  heavenly  song, 
How  weary  seems  the  way! 

Vain  every  pictured  phrase  to  tell 
Our  sorrowing  heart's  desire  ; 

The  shattered  harp,  the  broken  shell, 
The  silent  unstrung  lyre  ; 

For  youth  was  round  us  while  he  sang  ; 

It  glowed  in  every  tone  ; 
With  bridal  chimes  the  echoes  rang, 

And  made  the  past  our  own. 

0  blissful  dream  !  Our  nursery  joys 
We  know  must  have  an  end, 

But  love  and  friendship's  broken  toys 
May  God's  good  angels  mend  ! 

The  cheering  smile,  the  voice  of  mirth 

And  laughter's  gay  surprise 
That  please  the  children  born  of  earth, 

Why  deem  that  Heaven  denies  ? 

Methinks  in  that  refulgent  sphere 
That  knows  not  sun  or  moon, 

An  earth-born  saint  might  long  to  hear 
One  verse  of  "  Bonny  Doon  "  ; 

Or  walking  through  the  streets  of  gold 
In  Heaven's  unclouded  light, 

His  lips  recall  the  song  of  old 
And  hum  "  The  sky  is  bright." 
«  *  * 

And  can  we  smile  when  thou  art  dead  ? 

Ah,  brothers,  even  so  ! 
The  rose  of  summer  will  be  red, 

In  spite  of  winter's  enow. 

Thou  wouldst  not  leave  us  all  in  gloom 

Because  thy  song  is  still, 
Nor  blight  the  banquet-garland's  bloom 

With  griefs  untimely  chill. 


232 


POEMS   OF  THE   CLASS   OF   '29. 


The  sighing  wintry  winds  complain,  — 
The  singing  bird  has  flown,  — 

Hark  !  heard  I  not  that  ringing  strain, 
That  clear  celestial  tone  ? 

How  poor  these  pallid  phrases  seem, 
How  weak  this  tinkling  line, 

As  warbles  through  my  waking  dream 
That  angel  voice  of  thine  ! 

Thy  requiem  asks  a  sweeter  lay  ; 

It  falters  on  my  tongue  ; 
For  all  we  vainly  strive  to  say, 

Thou  shouldst  thyself  have  sung  ! 


1873. 


H.  C.  M.    H.8.    J.K.W. 

THE  dirge  is  played,  the  throbbing 

death-peal  rung ; 
The  sad- voiced  requiem  sung 
On  each  white  urn  where  memory 

dwells 
The  wreath  of  rustling  immortelles 

Our  loving  hands  have  hung, 
And  balmiest  leaves  have  strown  and  ten- 
derest  blossoms  flung. 

The  birds  that  filled  the  air  with  songs 

have  flown, 

The  wintry  blasts  have  blown, 
And  these  for  whom  the  voice  of 

spring 
Bade  the  sweet  choirs  their  carols 

sing 

Sleep  in  those  chambers  lone 
Where  snows  untrodden  lie,  unheard  the 
night-winds  moan. 

"We  clasp  them  all  in  memory,  as  the 

vine 

"Whose  running  stems  intwine, 
The  marble  shaft,  and  steal  around, 


The    lowly    stone,   the    nameless 

mound ; 

With  sorrowing  hearts  resign 
Our  brothers  true  and  tried,  and  close 
our  broken  line. 

How  fast  the  lamps  of  life  grow  dim 

and  die 

Beneath  our  sunset  sky  ! 
Still  fading,  as  along  our  track 
We  cast  our  saddened  glances  back, 

And  while  we  vainly  sigh 
The  shadowy  day   recedes,   the  starry 
night  draws  nigh. 

As  when  from  pier  to  pier  across  the 

tide 

With  even  keel  we  glide, 
The  lights  we  left  along  the  shore 
Grow  less  and  less,  while  more,  yet 

more 

New  vistas  open  wide 
Of  fair  illumined  streets  and  casements 
golden-eyed. 

Each  closing  circle  of  our  sunlit  sphere 
Seems  to  bring  Heaven  more  near: 
Can  we  not  dream  that  those  we  love 
Are  listening  in  the  world  above 

And  smiling  as  they  hear 
The  voices  known  so  well  of  friends  that 
still  are  dear  ? 

Does  all  that  made  us  human  fade  away 

With  this  dissolving  clay  ? 
Nay,  rather  deem  the  blessed  isles 
Are  bright  and  gay  with  joyous 

smiles, 

That  angels  have  their  play, 
And  saints  that  tire  of  song  may  claim 
their  holiday. 

All  else  of  earth  may  perish ;  love  alone 

Not  Heaven  shall  find  outgrown  I 

Are  they  not  here,  our  spirit  guests 

With  love  still  throbbing  in  their 

breasts  ? 


WHAT   I   HAVE   COME   FOR. OUR   BANKER. 


233 


Once  more  let  flowers  be  strown. 
Welcome,  ye  shadowy  forms,  we  count 
you  still  our  own  ! 

1873. 

WHAT  I  HAVE  COME  FOR. 

I  HAVE  come  with  my  verses  —  I  think 

I  may  claim 
It  is  not  the  first  time  I  have  tried  on 

the  same. 
They  were   puckered  in  rhyme,   they 

were  wrinkled  in  wit ; 
But  your  hearts  were  so  large  that  they 

made  them  a  fit. 

I  have  come  —  not  to  tease  you  with 

more  of  my  rhyme, 
But  to  feel  as  I  did  in  the  blessed  old 

time  ; 
I  want  to  hear  him  with  the  Brobding- 

nag  laugh  — 
We  count  him  at  least  as  three  men  and 

a  half. 

I  have  come  to  meet  judges  so  wise  and 

so  grand 
That  I  shake  in  my  shoes  while  they  're 

shaking  my  hand  ; 
And  the  prince  among  merchants  who 

put  back  the  crown 
When  they  tried  to  enthrone  him  the 

King  of  the  Town. 

I   have  come  to  see  George  —  Yes,   I 

think  there  are  four, 
If  they  all  were  like  these  I  could  wish 

there  were  more. 
I  have  come  to  see  one  whom  we  used 

to  call  "Jim," 
I  want  to  see  —  0,  don't  I  want  to  see 

him? 

I  have  come  to  grow  young  —  on  my 
word  I  declare 


I  have  thought  I  detected  a  change  in 

my  hair ! 
One  hour  with  "The  Boys"  will  restore 

it  to  brown  — 
And  a  wrinkle  or  two  I  expect  to  rub 

down. 

Yes,  that 's  what  I  Ve  come  for,  as  all 

of  us  come  ; 
When  I  meet  the  dear  Boys  I  could  wish. 

I  were  dumb. 
You  asked  me,   you  know,   but  it  's 

spoiling  the  fun  ; 
I  have  told  what  I  came  for ;  my  ditty 

is  done. 


1874. 

OUR  BANKER. 

OLD  Time,  in  whose  bank  we  deposit 

our  notes, 
Is  a  miser  who  always  wants  guineas  for 

groats ; 

He  keeps  all  his  customers  still  in  arrears 
By  lending  them  minutes  and  charging 

them  years. 

The  twelvemonth  rolls  round  and  we 

never  forget 
On  the  counter  before  us  to  pay  him  our 

debt. 
We  reckon  the  marks  he  has  chalked  on 

the  door, 
Pay  up  and  shake  hands  and  begin  a 

new  score. 

How  long  he  will  lend  us,  how  much  we 

may  owe, 
No  angel  will  tell  us,  no  mortal  may 

know. 
At  fivescore,  at  fourscore,  at  threescore 

and  ten, 
He  may  close  the  account  with  a  stroke 

of  his  pen. 


234 


POEMS   OF  THE   CLASS  OF   '29. 


This  only  we  know, — amid  sorrows  and 

j°ys 

Old  Time  has  been  easy  and  kind  with 

"The  Boys." 
Though  he  must  have  and  will  have 

and  does  have  his  pay, 
We    have    fonnd    him    good-natured 

enough  in  his  way. 

He  never  forgets   us,  as  others   will 

do,— 
I  am  sure  he  knows  me,  and  I  think  he 

knows  you, 
For  I  see  on  your  foreheads  a  mark  that 

he  lends 
As  a  sign  he  remembers  to  visit  his 

friends. 


In  the  shape  of  a  classmate  (a  wig  on 

his  crown,  — 
His  day-book  and  ledger  laid  carefully 

down) 
He  has  welcomed  us  yearly,  a  glass  in 

his  hand, 
And  pledged  the  good  health  of  our 

brotherly  band. 

He's  a  thief,  we  must  own,  but  how 

many  there  be 
That  rob  us  less  gently  and  fairly  than 

he: 
He  has  stripped  the  green  leaves  that 

were  over  us  all, 
But  they  let  in  the  sunshine  as  fast  as 

they  fall. 

Young  beauties  may  ravish  the  world 
with  a  glance 

As  they  languish  in  song,  as  they  float 
in  the  dance,  — 

They  are  grandmothers  now  we  remem- 
ber as  girls, 

And  the  comely  white  cap  takes  the 
place  of  the  curls. 


But  the  sighing  and  moaning  and  groan* 
ing  are  o'er, 

We  are  pining  and  moping  and  sleepless 
no  more, 

And  the  hearts  that  were  thumping  like 
ships  on  the  rocks 

Beat  as  quiet  and  steady  as  meeting- 
house clocks. 


The  trump  of  ambition,  loud  sounding 

and  shrill, 
May  blow  its  long  blast,  but  the  echoes 

are  still, 
The  spring-tides  are  past,  but  no  billow 

may  reach 
The  spoils  they  have  landed  far  up  on 

the  beach. 


We  see  that  Time  robs  us,  we  know 
that  he  cheats, 

But  we  still  find  a  charm  in  his  pleas- 
ant deceits, 

While  he  leaves  the  remembrance  of  all 
that  was  best, 

Love,  friendship,  and  hope,  and  the 
promise  of  rest 

Sweet  shadows  of  twilight !  how  calm 
their  repose, 

While  the  dewdrops  fall  soft  in  the 
breast  of  the  rose ! 

How  blest  to  the  toiler  his  hour  of  re- 
lease 

When  the  vesper  is  heard  with  its  whis- 
per of  peace  ! 

Then  here  's  to  the  wrinkled  old  miser, 

our  friend  ; 
May  he  send  us  his  bills  to  the  century's 

end, 
And  lend  us  the  moments  no  sorrow 

alloys, 
Till  he  squares  his  account  with  the  last 

of  "The  Boys." 


FOR  CLASS   MEETING. 


235 


1875. 

FOR  CLASS  MEETING. 

IT  is  a  pity  and  a  shame  —  alas  !  alas  ! 

I  know  it  is, 
To  tread  the  trodden  grapes  again,  but 

so  it  has  been,  so  it  is ; 
The  purple  vintage  long  is  past,  with 

ripened  clusters  bursting  so 
They  filled  the  wine-vats  to  the  brim  — 

't  is  strange  you  will  be  thirsting  so ! 

Too  well  our  faithful  memory  tells  what 

might  be  rhymed  or  sung  about, 
For  all  have  sighed  and  some  have  wept 

since  last  year's  snows  were  flung 

about; 
The  beacon  flame  that  fired  the  sky,  the 

modest  ray  that  gladdened  us, 
A  little  breath  has  quenched  their  light, 

and  deepening  shades  have  saddened 


No  more  our  brother's  life  is  ours  for 

cheering  or  for  grieving  us, 
One  only  sadness  they  bequeathed,  the 

sorrow  of  their  leaving  us ; 
Farewell  !  Farewell !  —  I  turn  the  leaf 

I  read  my  chiming  measure  in ; 
Who  knows  but  something  still  is  there 

a  friend  may  find  a  pleasure  in  ? 

For  who  can  tell  by  what  he  likes  what 

other  people's  fancies  are  ? 
How  all  men  think  the  best  of  wives 

their  own  particular  Nancies  are  ? 
If  what  I  sing  you  brings  a  smile,  you 

will  not  stop  to  catechise, 
Nor  read  Bceotia's  lumbering  line  with 

nicely  scanning  Attic  eyes. 

Perhaps  the   alabaster  box  that  Mary 

broke  so  lovingly, 
While  Judas  looked  so  sternly  on,  the 

Master  so  approvingly, 


Was  not  so  fairly  wrought  as  those  that 
Pilate's  wife  and  daughters  had, 

Or  many  a  dame  of  Judah's  line  that 
drank  of  Jordan's  waters  had. 

Perhaps  the  balm  that  cost  so  dear,  as 

some  remarked  officially, 
The  precious  nard  that  filled  the  room 

with  fragrance  so  deliciously, 
So  oft  recalled  in  storied  page  and  sung 

in  verse  melodious, 
The  dancing  girl  had  thought  too  cheap 

—  that  daughter  of  Herodias. 

Where  now  are  all  the  mighty  deeds 

that  Herod  boasted  loudest  of? 
Where  now  the   flashing   jewelry  the 

tetrarch's  wife  was  proudest  of? 
Yet  still  to  hear  how  Mary  loved,  all 

tribes  of  men  are  listening, 
And  still  the  sinful  woman's  tears  like 

stars  in  heaven  are  glistening. 

'T  is  not  the  gift  our  hands  have  brought, 

the  love  it  is  we  bring  with  it, 
The  minstrel's  lips  may  shape  the  song, 

his  heart  in  tune  must  sing  with  it ; 
And  so  we  love  the  simple  lays,  and 

wish  we  might  have  more  of  them 
Our  poet  brothers  sing  for  us  —  there 

must  be  half  a  score  of  them. 

It  may  be  that  of  fame  and  name  our 
voices  once  were  emulous,  — 

With  deeper  thoughts,  with  tenderer 
throbs  their  softening  tones  are 
tremulous ; 

The  dead  seem  listening  as  of  old,  ere 
friendship  was  bereft  of  them  ; 

The  living  wear  a  kinder  smile,  the  rem- 
nant that  is  left  of  them. 

Though  on  the  once  unfurrowed  brows 
the  harrow-teeth  of  Time  may  show, 

Though  all  the  strain  of  crippling  years 
the  halting  feet  of  rhyme  may  show, 


236 


POEMS   OF   THE   CLASS   OF   '29. 


We  look  and  hear  with  melting  hearts, 
for  what  we  all  remember  is 

The  morn  of  Spring,  nor  heed  how  chill 
the  sky  of  gray  November  is. 

Thanks  to  the  gracious  powers  above 

from  all  mankind  that  singled  us, 
And  dropped  the  pearl  of  friendship  in 

the  cup  they  kindly  mingled  us, 
And  bound  us  in  a  wreath  of  flowers 

with  hoops  of  steel  knit  under  it ;  — 
Nor  time,  nor  space,  nor  chance,  nor 

change,   nor  death   himself   shall 

sunder  it ! 


1876. 

"AD  AMICOS." 

"Dumque  virent  genua 
Et  decet,  obducta  solvatur  fronte  senectus." 

THE  muse  of  boyhood's  fervid  hour 

Grows  tame  as  skies  get  chill  and  hazy; 
Where  once  she  sought  a  passion-flower, 

She  only  hopes  to  find  a  daisy. 
Well,  who  the  changing  world  bewails  ? 

Who  asks  to  have  it  stay  unaltered  ? 
Shall  grown-up  kittens  chase  their  tails  ? 

Shall  colts  be  never  shod  or  haltered  ? 

Are  we  "the  boys  "  that  used  to  make 

The  tables  ring  with  noisy  follies  ? 
Whose  deep-lunged  laughter  oft  would 
shake 

The  ceiling  with  its  thunder-volleys  ? 
Are  we  the  youths  with  lips  unshorn, 

At  beauty's  feet  unwrinkled  suitors, 
Whose     memories     reach     tradition's 
morn  — 

The  days  of  prehistoric  tutors  ? 

"  The  boys  "  we  knew  —  but  who  are 

these 

Whose   heads  might  serve  for  Plu- 
tarch's sages, 


Or  Fox's  martyrs,  if  you  please, 

Or  hermits  of  the  dismal  ages  ? 
"The  boys"  we  knew  —  can  these  be 

those  ? 
Their  cheeks  with  morning's  blush 

were  painted;  — 

Where  are  the  Harrys,  Jims,  and  Joes 
With    whom    we    once    were    well 
acquainted  ? 

If  we  are  they,  we  're  not  the  same  ; 
If  they  are  we,   why  then  they  're 

masking ; 

Do  tell  us,  neighbor  What  's-your-name, 
Who  are  you  ?  —  What 's  the  use  of 

asking  ? 

You  once  were  George,  or  Bill,  or  Ben  ; 
There  's  you,    yourself  —  there  's  you, 

that  other  — 

I  know  you  now  —  I  knew  you  then  — 
You  used  to  be  your  younger  brother  ! 

You  both  are  all  our  own  to-day  — 

But  ah  !  I  hear  a  warning  whisper ; 
Yon  roseate  hour  that  flits  away 

Repeats  the  Roman's  sad  paulisper. 
Come  back  !  come  back  !  we  've  need  of 
you 

To  pay  you  for  your  word  of  warning ; 
We  '11  bathe  your  wings  in  brighter  dew 

Than  ever  wet  the  lids  of  morning  ! 

Behold  this  cup ;  its  mystic  wine 

No  alien's  lip  has  ever  tasted ; 
The    blood    of    friendship's    clinging 
vine, 

Still  flowing,  flowing,  yet  unwasted  ; 
Old  Time  forgot  his  running  sand 

And  laid  his  hour-glass  down  to  fill  it, 
And  Death  himself  with  gentle  hand 

Has  touched  the  chalice,  not  to  spill 
it. 

Each  bubble  rounding  at  the  brim 
Is  rainbowed  with  its  magic  story ; 


HOW  NOT   TO   SETTLE  IT. 


237 


The  shining  days  with  age  grown  dim 
Are  dressed  again  in  robes  of  glory ; 
In  all  its  freshness  spring  returns 
With  song    of   birds   and  blossoms 

tender ; 

Once  more  the  torch  of  passion  burns, 
And  youth  is  here  in  all  its  splen- 
dor! 

Hope  swings  her  anchor  like  a  toy, 

Love  laughs  and  shows  the  silver  arrow 
We  knew  so  well  as  man  and  boy,  — 

The  shaft  that  stings  through  bone 

and  marrow; 
Again  our  kindling  pulses  beat, 

With  tangled  curls  our  fingers  dally, 
And  bygone  beauties  smile  as  sweet 

As  fresh-blown  lilies  of  the  valley. 

0  blessed  hour  !  we  may  forget 

Its  wreaths,  its  rhymes,  its  songs,  its 

laughter, 

But  not  the  loving  eyes  we  met, 
Whose  light  shall  gild  the  dim  here- 
after. 

How  every  heart  to  each  grows  warm  ! 
Is  one  in  sunshine's  ray  ?    We  share 

it. 

Is  one  in  sorrow's  blinding  storm  ? 
A  look,  a  word,  shall  help  him  bear  it. 

"The  boys  "  we  were,  "  the  boys  "  we  '11 

be 

As  long  as  three,  as  two,  are  creep- 
ing ; 
Then    here  's  to  him  —  ah  !   which  is 

he?  — 

Who  lives  till  all  the  rest  are  sleep- 
ing; 

A  life  with  tranquil  comfort  blest, 
The  young  man's  health,   the  rich 

man's  plent)', 

All  earth  can  give  that  earth  has  best, 
And  heaven  at  fourscore  years  and 
twenty. 


1877. 

HOW  NOT  TO  SETTLE  IT. 

I  LIKE,  at  times,  to  hear  the  steeples' 

chimes 
With    sober    thoughts    impressively 

that  mingle  ; 
But   sometimes,   too,    I   rather  like  — 

don't  you  ? — 

To  hear  the  music  of  the  sleigh  bells' 
jingle. 

I   like  full  well  the  deep  resounding 

swell 
Of  mighty  symphonies  with   chords 

inwoven  ; 
But  sometimes,  too,  a  song  of  Burns  — 

don't  you  ? 

After  a  solemn  storm-blast  of  Beetho- 
ven. 

Good  to  the  heels  the  well-worn  slipper 

feels 
When  the  tired  player  shuffles  off  the 

buskin  ; 

A  page  of  Hood  may  do  a  fellow  good 
After  a  scolding  from  Carlyle  or  Rus- 
kin. 

Some  works  I  find,  —  say  Watts  upon 

the  Mind,  — 
No  matter  though  at  first  they  seemed 

amusing, 

Not  quite  the  same,  but  just  a  little  tame 
After  some  five  or  six  times'  reperus- 
ing. 

So,    too,    at   times    when    melancholy 

rhymes 
Or  solemn  speeches  sober  down  a  din- 

fier, 
I  've  seen   it,    's  true,    quite  often,  — 

have  n't  you  ?  — 

The  best-fed  guests  perceptibly  grow 
thinner. 


238 


POEMS   OF  THE   CLASS   OF  '29. 


Better  some  jest  (in  proper  terms  ex- 
pressed) 

Or  story  (strictly  moral)  even  if  musty, 
Or  song  we  sung  when  these  old  throats 

were  young,  — 

Something  to  keep  our  souls  from 
getting  rusty. 

The  poorest  scrap  from  memory's  ragged 

lap 
Comes  like  an  heirloom  from  a  dear 

dead  mother  — 

Hush  !  there  's  a  tear  that  has  no  busi- 
ness here, 

A  half-formed  sigh  that  ere  its  birth 
we  smother. 

We  cry,  we  laugh  ;  ah,  life  is  half  and 

half, 
Now  bright  and  joyous  as  a  song  of 

Herrick's, 
Then  chill  and  bare  as  funeral-minded 

Blair  ; 
As  fickle  as  a  female  in  hysterics. 

If  I  could  make  you  cry  I  would  n't  try  ; 
If  you  have  hidden  smiles  I  'd  like  to 

find  them, 
And  that  although,  as  well  I  ought  to 

know, 

The  lips  of  laughter  have  a  skull  be- 
hind them. 

Yet  when  I  think  we  may  be  on  the 

brink 

Of  having  Freedom's  banner  to  dis- 
pose of, 
All  crimson-hued,  because  the  Nation 

would 

Insist  on  cutting  its  own  precious 
nose  off, 

I  feel  indeed  as  if  we  rather  need 
A  sermon  such  as  preachers  tie  a  text 
on. 


If  Freedom  dies  because  a  ballot  lies, 
She  earns  her  grave  ;  't  is  time  to  call 
the  sexton  ! 

But  if  a  fight  can  make  the  matter  right, 
Here  are  we,  classmates,  thirty  men 

of  mettle ; 
We  're  strong  and  tough,  we  've  lived 

nigh  long  enough — 
What  if  the  Nation  gave  it  us   to 
settle  ? 

The  tale  would  read  like  that  illustrious 

deed 
When  Curtius  took  the  leap  the  gap 

that  filled  in, 
Thus;  "Fivescore  years,  good  friends, 

as  it  appears, 

At  last  this  people  split  on  Hayes  and 
Tilden. 

"One  half  cried,   'See!    the  choice  is 

S.  J.  T. ! ' . 
And  one  half  swore  as  stoutly  it  was 

t'  other ; 

Both  drew  the  knife  to  save  the  Na- 
tion's life 
By  wholesale  vivisection  of  each  other. 

"  Then  rose  in  mass  that  monumental 

Class,  — 
'  Hold  !  hold  ! '  they  cried,  '  give  us, 

give  us  the  daggers  ! ' 
'  Content  !    content ! '    exclaimed  with 

one  consent 

The  gaunt  ex-rebels  and  the  carpet- 
baggers. 

"Fifteen    each    side,    the    combatants 

divide, 

So  nicely  balanced  are  their  predilec- 
tions ; 

And  first  of  all  a  tear-drop  each  lets  fall, 
A  tribute  to  their  obsolete  affections. 


HOW  NOT  TO   SETTLE  IT. 


239 


"  Man  facing  man,  the  sanguine  strife 

began, 
Jack,  Jim  and  Joe  against  Tom,  Dick 

and  Harry, 
Each  several  pair  its  own  account  to 

square, 

Till  both  were  down  or  one  stood  soli- 
tary. 

"And  the  great  fight  raged  furious  all 

the  night 

Till  every  integer  was  made  a  fraction ; 
Reader,  wouldst  know  what  history  has 

to  show 
As  net  result  of  the  above  transaction  ? 


"Whole   coat-tails,    four;    stray  frag- 
ments, several  score  ; 
A  heap  of  spectacles  ;  a  deaf  man's 

trumpet ; 

Six  lawyers'  briefs  ;  seven  pocket-hand- 
kerchiefs ; 

Twelve   canes  wherewith  the  owners 
used  to  stump  it ; 

"  Odd  rubber-shoes ;  old  gloves  of  dif- 
ferent hues ; 
Tax-bills,  —  unpaid,  —  and    several 

empty  purses ; 

And,  saved  from  harm  by  some  protect- 
ing charm, 

A  printed  page  with  Smith's  immortal 
verses ; 

"Trifles   that    claim    no  very  special 

name,  — 

Some  useful,  others  chiefly  ornament- 
al; 
Pins,  buttons,  rings,  and  other  trivial 

things, 

With  various  wrecks,   capillary  and 
dental. 

"  Also,  one  flag,  —  't  was  nothing  but  a 
rag, 


And  what  device  it  bore  it  little  mat- 
ters ; 

Eed,    white,   and    blue,    but    rent    all 
through  and  through, 

'  Union  forever '  torn  to  shreds  and 
tatters. 

"They  fought  so  well  not  one  was  left 

to  tell 
Which  got  the  largest  share  of  cuts 

and  slashes ; 
When  heroes  meet,  both  sides  are  bound 

to  beat ; 

They  telescoped  like  cars  in  railroad 
smashes. 

"  So  the  great  split  that  baffled  human 

wit 
And  might  have   cost  the  lives  of 

twenty  millions, 
As  all  may  see  that  know  the  rule  of 

three, 

Was  settled  just  as  well   by  these 
civilians. 

"  As  well.     Just  so.     Not  worse,  not 

better.     No, 
Next  morning  found  the  Nation  still 

divided  ; 
Since  all  were  slain,   the   inference  is 

plain 

They  left  the  point  they  fought  for 
undecided." 


If  not  quite  true,  as  I  have  told  it  you,  — 

This  tale  of  mutual  extermination, 
To  minds   perplexed  with   threats  of 

what  comes  next, 

Perhaps  may  furnish  food  for  contem- 
plation. 

To  cut  men's  throats  to  help  them  count 

their  votes 

Is    asinine  —  nay,   worse  —  ascidian 
folly ; 


240 


POEMS   OF   THE   CLASS   OF   '29. 


Blindness  like  that   would    scare   the 

mole  and  bat, 

And  make  the  liveliest  monkey  mel- 
ancholy. 

I  say  once  more,  as  I  have  said  be- 
fore, 

If  voting  for  our  Tildens  and   our 
Hayeses 

Means  only  fight,  then,  Liberty,  good 
night ! 


Pack  up  your  ballot-box  and  go  to 
blazes  ! 

Unfurl  your  blood-red  flags,  you  mur- 
derous hags, 
You  pelroleuscs  of  Paris,  fierce  and 

foamy ; 
We  '11   sell  our    stock    in   Plymouth's 

blasted  rock, 

Pull  up  our  stakes  and  migrate   to 
Dahomey ! 


SONGS   OF   MANY   SEASONS. 


1862  -  1874. 


OPENING  THE  WINDOW. 

THUS  I  lift  the  sash,  so  long 
Shut  against  the  flight  of  song  ; 
All  too  late  for  vain  excuse,  — 
Lo,  my  captive  rhymes  are  loose  ! 

Khymes  that,  flitting  through  my  brain, 
Beat  against  my  window-pane, 
Some  with  gayly  colored  wings, 
Some,  alas  !  with  venomed  stings. 

Shall  they  bask  in  sunny  rays? 
Shall  they  feed  on  sugared  praise  ? 
Shall  they  stick  with  tangled  feet 
On  the  critic's  poisoned  sheet  ?  . 

Are  the  outside  winds  too  rough  ? 
Is  the  world  not  wide  enough? 
G  o,  my  winged  verse,  and  try,  — 
G  3,  like  Uncle  Toby's  fly  1 


PROGRAMME. 

READER  —  gentle  —  if  so  be 
Such  still  live,  and  live  for  me, 
Will  it  please  you  to  be  told 
What  my  tenscore  pages  hold  ? 

Here  are  verses  that  in  spite 

Of  myself  I  needs  must  write, 

Like  the  wine  that  oozes  first 

When  the  unsqueezed  grapes  have  burst. 


Here  are  angry  lines,  "  too  hard  ! " 
Says  the  soldier,  battle-scarred. 
Could  I  smile  his  scars  away 
I  would  blot  the  bitter  lay, 

Written  with  a  knitted  brow, 
Read  with  placid  wonder  now. 
Throbbed  such  passion  in  my  heart? 
—  Did  his  Avounds  once  really  smart  ? 

Here  are  varied  strains  that  sing 
All  the  changes  life  can  bring, 
Songs  when  joyous  friends  have  met, 
Songs  the  mourner's  tears  have  wet. 

See  the  banquet's  dead  bouquet, 
Fair  and  fragrant  in  its  day ; 
Do  they  read  the  selfsame  lines,  — 
He  that  fasts  and  he  that  dines  ? 

Year  by  year,  like  milestones  placed, 
Mark  the  record  Friendship  traced. 
Prisoned  in  the  walls  of  time 
Life  has  notched  itself  in  rhyme  : 

As  its  seasons  slid  along, 
Every  year  a  notch  of  song, 
From  the  June  of  long  ago, 
When  the  rose  was  full  in  blow, 

Till  the  scarlet  sage  has  come 
And  the  cold  chrysanthemum. 
Read,  but  not  to  praise  or  blame ; 
Are  not  all  our  hearts  the  same  ? 


242 


SONGS   OF  MANY   SEASONS. 


For  the  rest,  they  take  their  chance,  — 
Some  may  pay  a  passing  glance ; 
Others,  —  well,  they  served  a  turn,  — 
Wherefore  written,  would  you  learn  ? 

Not  for  glory,  not  for  pelf, 
Not,  be  sure,  to  please  myself 
Not  for  any  meaner  ends,  — 
Always  "  by  request  of  friends." 

Here  's  the  cousin  of  a  king,  — 
Would  I  do  the  civil  thing? 
Here  's  the  first-born  of  a  queen; 
Here  's  a  slant-eyed  Mandarin. 

Would  I  polish  off  Japan  ? 
Would  I  greet  this  famous  man, 
Prince  or  Prelate,  Sheik  or  Shah  ?  — 
—  Figaro  $i  and  Figaro  Ik ! 

Would  I  just  this  once  comply  ?  — 
So  they  teased  and  teased  till  I 


(Be  the  truth  at  once  confessed) 
Wavered  —  yielded  —  did  my  best. 

Turn  my  pages,  —  never  mind 
If  you  like  not  all  you  find  ; 
Think  not  all  the  grains  are  gold 
Sacramento's  sand-banks  hold. 

Every  kernel  has  its  shell, 
Every  chime  its  harshest  bell, 
Every  face  its  weariest  look, 
Every  shelf  its  emptiest  book, 

Every  field  its  leanest  sheaf, 
Every  book  its  dullest  leaf, 
Every  leaf  its  weakest  line,  — 
Shall  it  not  be  so  with  mine  ? 

Best  for  worst  shall  make  amends, 
Find  us,  keep  us,  leave  us  friends 
Till,  perchance,  we  meet  again. 
Benedicite.  —  Amen  ! 

October  7,  1874 


IN   THE  QUIET  DAYS. 


243 


IN    THE    QUIET    DAYS. 


AN  OLD-YEAR  SONG. 

As  through  the  forest,  disarrayed 

By  chill  November,  late  I  strayed, 

A  lonely  minstrel  of  the  wood 

Was  singing  to  the  solitude : 

I  loved  thy  music,  thus  I  said, 

When  o'er  thy  perch  the  leaves  were 

spread  ; 

Sweet  was  thy  song,  but  sweeter  now 
Thy  carol  on  the  leafless  bough. 

Sing,  little  bird  !  thy  note  shall  cheer 
The  sadness  of  the  dying  year. 

When  violets  pranked  the  turf  with  blue 
And  morning  filled  their  cups  with  dew, 
Thy  slender  voice  with  rippling  trill 
The  budding  April  bowers  would  fill, 
Nor  passed  its  joyous  tones  away 
When  April  rounded  into  May : 
Thy  life  shall  hail  no  second  dawn,  — 
Sing,  little  bird  !  the  spring  is  gone. 

And  I  remember  —  well-a-day !  — 
Thy  full-blown  summer  roundelay, 
As  when  behind  a  broidered  screen 
Some  holy  maiden  sings  unseen : 
With   answering    notes    the  woodland 

rung, 

And  every  tree-top  found  a  tongue. 
How  deep  the  shade  !  the  groves  how 

fair! 
Sing,  little  bird  !  the  woods  are  bare. 

The  summer's  throbbing  chant  is  done 

And  mute  the  choral  antiphon  ; 

The  birds  have  left  the  shivering  pines 


To  flit  among  the  trellised  vines, 
Or  fan  the  air  with  scented  plumes 
Amid  the  love-sick  orange-blooms, 
And  thou  art  here  alone,  —  alone,  — 
Sing,  little  bird  !  the  rest  have  flown. 

The  snow  has  capped  yon  distant  kill, 
At  morn  the  running  brook  was  still, 
From  driven  herds  the  clouds  that  rise 
Are  like  the  smoke  of  sacrifice  ; 
Erelong  the  frozen  sod  shall  mock 
The  ploughshare,  changed  to  stubborn 

rock, 
The  brawling  streams  shall    soon    be 

dumb,  — 
Sing,  little  bird !  the  frosts  have  come. 

Fast,    fast    the    leagthening    shadows 

creep, 

The  songless  fowls  are  half  asleep, 
The  air  grows  chill,  the  setting  sun 
May  leave  thee  ere  thy  song  is  done, 
The  pulse  that  warms  thy  breast  grow 

cold, 

Thy  secret  die  with  thee,  untold  : 
The  lingering  sunset  still  is  bright,  — 
Sing,  little  bird !  't  will  soon  be  night. 
1874. 

DOROTHY  Q. 

A  FAMILY   PORTRAIT. 

GRANDMOTHER'S  mother :    her  age,   I 

guess, 
Thirteen  summers,  or  something  less  ; 


244 


SONGS   OF   MANY   SEASONS. 


Girlish  bust,  but  womanly  air  ; 
Smooth,  square  forehead  with  uprolled 

hair, 

Lips  that  lover  has  never  kissed ; 
Taper  fingers  and  slender  wrist ; 
Hanging  sleeves  of  stiff  brocade  ; 
So  they  painted  the  little  maid. 

On  her  hand  a  parrot  green 
Sits  unmoving  and  broods  serene. 
Hold  up  the  canvas  full  in  view,  — 
Look  !  there  's  a  rent  the  light  shines 

through, 

Dark  with  a  century's  fringe  of  dust,  — 
That  was  a  Red-Coat's  rapier-thrust ! 
Such  is  the  tale  the  lady  old, 
Dorothy's  daughter's  daughter,  told. 

Who  the  painter  was  none  may  tell,  — 
One  whose  best  was  not  over  well ; 
Hard  and  dry,  it  must  be  confessed, 
Flat  as  a  rose  that  has  long  been  pressed ; 
Yet  in  her  cheek  the  hues  are  bright, 
Dainty  colors  of  red  and  white, 
And  in  her  slender  shape  are  seen 
Hint  and  promise  of  stately  mien. 

• 

Look  not  on  her  with  eyes  of  scorn,  — 
Dorothy  Q.  was  a  lady  born  ! 
Ay !  since  the  galloping  Normans  came, 
England's  annals  have  known  her  name ; 
And  still  to  the  three-hilled  rebel  town 
Dear  is  that  ancient  name's  renown, 
For  many  a  civic  wreath  they  won, 
The  youthful  sire  and  the  gray-haired 
son. 

0  Damsel  Dorothy  !  Dorothy  Q.  ! 
Strange  is  the  gift  that  I  owe  to  you  ; 
Such  a  gift  as  never  a  king 
Save  to  daughter  or  son  might  bring,  — 
All  my  tenure  of  heart  and  hand, 
All  my  title  to  house  and  land  ; 
Mother  and  sister  and  child  and  wife 
And  joy  and  sorrow  and  death  and  life  ! 


What  if  a  hundred  years  ago 
Those  close-shut  lips  had  answered  No, 
When  forth  the  tremulous  question  came 
That  cost  the  maiden  her  Norman  name, 
And  under  the  folds  that  look  so  still 
The  bodice   swelled  with  the  bosom's 

thrill  ? 

Should  I  be  I,  or  would  it  be 
One  tenth  another,  to  nine  tenths  me  ? 

Soft  is  the  breath  of  a  maiden's  YES  : 
Not  the  light  gossamer  stirs  with  less  ; 
But  never  a  cable  that  holds  so  fast 
Through  all  the  battles  of  wave  and 

blast, 

And  never  an  echo  of  speech  or  song 
That  lives  in  the  babbling  air  so  long  ! 
There  were  tones  in  the  voice  that  whis- 
pered then 
You  may  hear  to-day  in  a  hundred  men. 

0  lady  and  lover,  how  faint  and  far 
Your  images  hover,  —  and  here  we  are, 
Solid  and  stirring  in  flesh  and  bone,  — 
Edward's    and    Dorothy's  —  all    their 

own,  — 

A  goodly  record  for  Time  to  show 
Of  a  syllable  spoken  so  long  ago  !  — 
Shall  I  bless  you,  Dorothy,  or  forgive 
For  the  tender  whisper  that  bade  me 

live? 

It  shall  be  a  blessing,  my  little  maid  ! 

1  will  heal  the  stab  of  the  Ked-Coat'i 

blade, 
And  freshen  the  gold  of  the  tarnished 

frame, 
And  gild  with  a  rhyme  your  household 

name  ; 

So  you  shall  smile  on  us  brave  and  bright 
As  first  you  greeted  the  morning's  light, 
And  live  untroubled  by  woes  and  fears 
Through  a  second  youth  of  a  hundred 

years. 

1871. 


IN  THE   QUIET  DAYS. 


245 


THE  ORGAN-BLOWER. 

DEVOUTEST  of  my  Sunday  friends, 
The  patient  Organ-blower  bends ; 
I  see  his  figure  sink  and  rise, 
(Forgive   me,    Heaven,    my  wandering 

eyes  !) 

A  moment  lost,  the  next  half  seen, 
His  head  above  the  scanty  screen, 
Still  measuring  out  his  deep  salaams 
Through  quavering  hymns  and  panting 


No  priest  that  prays  in  gilded  stole, 
To  save  a  rich  man's  mortgaged  soul ; 
No  sister,  fresh  from  holy  vows, 
So  humbly  stoops,  so  meekly  bows  ; 
His  large  obeisance  puts  to  shame 
The  proudest  genuflecting  dame, 
Whose  Easter  bonnet  low  descends 
With  all  the  grace  devotion  lends. 

0  brother  with  the  supple  spine, 
How  much  we  owe  those  bows  of  thine  ! 
Without  thine  arm  to  lend  the  breeze, 
How  vain  the  finger  on  the  keys ! 
Though  all  unmatched  the  player's  skill, 
Those  thousand  throats  were  dumb  and 

still : 

Another's  art  may  shape  the  tone, 
The  breath  that  fills  it  is  thine  own. 

Six  days  the  silent  Memnon  waits 
Behind  his  temple's  folded  gates ; 
But  when  the  seventh  day's  sunshine 

falls 
Through  rainbowed   windows    on    the 

walls, 

He  breathes,  he  sings,  he  shouts,  he  fills 
The  quivering  air  with  rapturous  thrills ; 
The  roof  resounds,  the  pillars  shake, 
And  all  the  slumbering  echoes  wake  ! 

The  Preacher  from  the  Bible-text 
With  weary  words  my  soul  has  vexed 
(Some  stranger,  fumbling  far  astray 
To  find  the  lesson  for  the  day) ; 


He  tells  us  truths  too  plainly  true, 
And  reads  the  service  all  askew,  — 
Why,  why  the  —  mischief — can't  h« 

look 
Beforehand  in  the  service-book  ? 

But  thou,  with  decent  mien  and  face, 
Art  always  ready  in  thy  place  ; 
Thy  strenuous  blast,  whate'er  the  tune, 
As  steady  as  the  strong  monsoon  ; 
Thy  only  dread  a  leathery  creak, 
Or  small  residual  extra  squeak, 
To  send  along  the  shadowy  aisles 
A  sunlit  wave  of  dimpled  smiles. 

Not  all  the  preaching,  0  my  friend, 
Comes  from  the  church's  pulpit  end  ! 
Not  all  that  bend  the  knee  and  bow 
Yield  service  half  so  true  as  thou  ! 
One  simple  task  performed  aright, 
With  slender  skill,  but  all  thy  might, 
Where  honest  labor  does  its  best, 
And  leaves  the  player  all  the  rest. 

This  many-diapasoned  maze, 

Through  which   the    breath  of   being 

strays, 

Whose  music  makes  our  earth  divine, 
Has  work  for  mortal  hands  like  mine. 
My  duty  lies  before  me.     Lo, 
The  lever  there  !     Take  hold  and  blow  ! 
And  He  whose  hand  is  on  the  keys 
Will  play  the  tune  as  He  shall  please. 
1872. 

AT  THE  PANTOMIME. 

THE  house  was  crammed  from  roof  to 

floor, 

Heads  piled  on  heads  at  every  door  ; 
Half  dead  with  August's  seething  heat 
I  crowded  on  and  found  my  seat, 
My  patience  slightly  out  of  joint, 
My  temper  short  of  boiling-point, 
Not  quite  at  Hate  mankitid  as  such, 
Nor  yet  at  Love  them  overmuch. 


246 


SONGS  OF  MANY   SEASONS. 


Amidst  the  throng  the  pageant  drew 
Were  gathered  Hebrews  not  a  few, 
Black-bearded,  swarthy,  —  at  their  side 
Dark,  jewelled  women,  orient-eyed  : 
If  scarce  a  Christian  hopes  for  grace 
Who  crowds  one  in  his  narrow  place 
What  will  the  savage  victim  do 
Whose  ribs  are  kneaded  by  a  Jew  ? 

Next  on  my  left  a  breathing  form 
Wedged  up  against  me,  close  and  warm  ; 
The  beak  that  crowned  the  bistred  face 
Betrayed  the  mould  of  Abrahain'srace,  — 
That  coal-black  hair,  that  smoke-brown 

hue,  — 

Ah,  cursed,  unbelieving  Jew  ! 
I  started,  shuddering,  to  the  right, 
And  squeezed  —  a  second  Israelite  ! 

Then  woke  the  evil  brood  of  rage 
That  slumber,  tongueless,  in  their  cage  ; 
I  stabbed  in  turn  with  silent  oaths 
The  hook-nosed  kite  of  carrion  clothes, 
The  snaky  usurer,  him  that  crawls 
And  cheats  beneath  the  golden  balls, 
Moses  and  Levi,  all  the  horde, 
Spawn  of  the  race  that  slew  its  Lord. 

Up  came  their  murderous  deeds  of  old, 
The  grisly  story  Chaucer  told, 
And  many  an  ugly  tale  beside 
Of  children  caught  and  crucified  ; 
I  heard  the  ducat-sweating  thieves 
Beneath  the  Ghetto's  slouching  eaves, 
And,  thrust  beyond  the  tented  green, 
The  lepers  cry,  "  Unclean  !    Unclean  ! " 

The  show  went  on,  but,  ill  at  ease, 

My  sullen  eye  it  could  not  please, 

In    vain    my    conscience    whispered, 

"Shame! 

Who  but  their  Maker  is  to  blame  ? " 
I  thought  of  Judas  and  his  bribe, 
And  steeled  my  soul  against  their  tribe  : 
My  neighbors  stirred  ;  I  looked  again 
Full  on  the  younger  of  the  twain. 


A  fresh  young  cheek  whose  olive  hue 
The    mantling    blood    shows    faintly 

through  ; 

Locks  dark  as  midnight,  that  divide 
And  shade  the  neck  on  either  side  ; 
Soft,  gentle,  loving  eyes  that  gleam 
Clear  as  a  starlit  mountain  stream  ;  — 
So  looked  that  other  child  of  Shem, 
The  Maiden's  Boy  of  Bethlehem  ! 

—  And  thou  couldst  scorn  the  peerless 

blood 

That  flows  unmingled  from  the  Flood, — 
Thy  scutcheon  spotted  with  the  stains 
Of  Norman  thieves  and  pirate  Danes  ! 
The  New  World's  foundling,  in  thy  pride 
Scowl  on  the  Hebrew  at  thy  side, 
And  lo  !  the  very  semblance  there 
The  Lord  of  Glory  deigned  to  wear  ! 

I  see  that  radiant  image  vise, 
The  flowing  hair,  the  pitying  eyes, 
The  faintly  crimsoned  cheek  that  shows 
The  blush  of  Sharon's  opening  rose,  — 
Thy  hands  would  clasp  his  hallowed  feet 
Whose  brethren  soil  thy  Christian  seat, 
Thy  lips  would  press  his  garment's  hem 
That  curl  in  wrathful  scorn  for  them  ! 

A  sudden  mist,  a  watery  screen, 
Dropped  like  a  veil  before  the  scene  ; 
The  shadow  floated  from  my  soul, 
And  to  my  lips  a  whisper  stole,  — 
"  Thy  prophets  caught  the  Spirit's  flame, 
From  thee  the  Son  of  Mary  came, 
Withthee  the  Father  deigned  to  dwell,  — • 
Peace  be  upon  thee,  Israel !  " 

18  —  .    Rewritten  1874. 


AFTER  THE  FIRE. 

WHILE  far  along  the  eastern  sky 
I  saw  the  flags  of  Havoc  fly, 
As  if  his  forces  would  assault 
The  sovereign  of  the  starry  vault 


IN  THE  QUIET  DAYS. 


247 


And  hurl  Him  back  the  burning  rain 
That  seared  the  cities  of  the  plain, 
I  read  as  on  a  crimson  page 
The  words  of  Israel's  sceptred  sage  :  — 

For  riches  make  them  wings,  and  they 
Do  as  an  eagle  fly  away. 

0  vision  of  that  sleepless  night, 
What  hue  shall  paint  the  mocking  light 
That  burned  and  stained  the  orient  skies 
Where  peaceful  morning  loves  to  rise, 
As  if  the  sun  had  lost  his  way 
And  dawned  to  make  a  second  day,  — 
Above  how  red  with  fiery  glow, 
How  dark  to  those  it  woke  below ! 

On  roof  and  wall,  on  dome  and  spire, 
Flashed  the  false  jewels  of  the  fire  ; 
Girt  with  her  belt  of  glittering  panes, 
And  crowned  with  starry -gleaming  vanes, 
Our  northern  queen  in  glory  shone 
With  new-born  splendors  not  her  own, 
And  stood,  transfigured  in  our  eyes, 
A  victim  decked  for  sacrifice ! 

The  cloud  still  hovers  overhead, 
And  still  the  midnight  sky  is  red  ; 
As  the  lost  wanderer  strays  alone 
To  seek  the  place  he  called  his  own, 
His  devious  footprints  sadly  tell 
How  changed  the  pathways  known  so 

•well ; 

The  scene,  how  new !    The  tale,  how  old 
Ere  yet  the  ashes  have  grown  cold ! 

Again  I  read  the  words  that  came 
Writ  in  the  rubric  of  the  flame  : 
Howe'er  we  trust  to  mortal  things, 
Each  hath  its  pair  of  folded  wings  ; 
Though  long  their  terrors  rest  unspread 
Their  fatal  plumes  are  never  shed  ; 
At  last,  at  last,  they  stretch  in  flight, 
And  blot  the  day  and  blast  the  night ! 


Hope,  only  Hope,  of  all  that  clings 
Around  us,  never  spreads  her  wings  ; 
Love,  though  he  break  his  earthly  chain, 
Still  whispers  he  will  come  again  ; 
But  Faith  that  soars  to  seek  the  sky 
Shall  teach  our  half-fledged  souls  to  fly, 
And  find,  beyond  the  smoke  and  flame, 
The  cloudless  azure  whence  they  came  ! 
1872. 

A  BALLAD  OF  THE  BOSTON  TEA- 
PARTY. 

No  !  never  such  a  draught  was  poured 

Since  Hebe  served  with  nectar 
The  bright  Olympians  and  their  Lord, 

Her  over-kind  protector,  — 
Since  Father  Noah  squeezed  the  grape 

And  took  to  such  behaving 
As  would  have  shamed  our  grandsire  ape 

Before  the  days  of  shaving,  — 
No  !  ne'er  was  mingled  such  a  draught 

In  palace,  hall,  or  arbor, 
As  freemen  brewed  and  tyrants  quaffed 

That  night  in  Boston  Harbor ! 
It  kept  King  George  so  long  awake 

His  brain  at  last  got  addled, 
It  made  the  nerves  of  Britain  shake, 

With  sevenscore  millions  saddled  ; 
Before  that  bitter  cup  was  drained, 

Amid  the  roar  of  cannon, 
The  Western  war-cloud's  crimson  stained 

The  Thames,  the  Clyde,  the  Shannon ; 
Full  many  a  six-foot  grenadier 

The  flattened  grass  had  measured, 
And  many  a  mother  many  a  year 

Her  tearful  memories  treasured  ; 
Fast  spread  the  tempest's  darkening  pall, 

The  mighty  realms  were  troubled, 
The  storm  broke  loose,  but  first  of  all 

The  Boston  teapot  bubbled  ! 

An  evening  party,  —  only  that, 

No  formal  invitation, 
No  gold-laced  coat,  no  stiff  cravat, 

No  feast  in  contemplation, 


248 


SONGS   OF  MANY   SEASONS. 


No  silk-robed  dames,  no  fiddling  band, 

No  flowers,  no  songs,  no  dancing,  — 
A  tribe  of  Red  men,  axe  in  hand,  — 

Behold  the  guests  advancing  ! 
How  fast  the  stragglers  join  the  throng, 

From  stall  and  workshop  gathered  ! 
The  lively  barber  skips  along 

And  leaves  a  chin  half-lathered  ; 
The  smith  has  flung  his  hammer  down,  — 

The  horseshoe  still  is  glowing  ; 
The  truant  tapster  at  the  Crown 

Has  left  a  beer-cask  flowing  ; 
The  cooper's  boys  have  dropped  the  adze, 

And  trot  behind  their  master  ; 
Up  run  the  tarry  ship-yard  lads,  — 

The  crowd  is  hurrying  faster,  — 
Out  from  the  Millpond's  purlieus  gush 

The  streams  of  white-faced  millers, 
And  down  their  slippery  alleys  rush 

The  lusty  young  Fort-Hillers  ; 
The  ropewalk  lends  its  'prentice  crew,  — 

The  tones  seize  the  omen  : 
"  Ay,  boys,  you  '11  soon  have  work  to  do 

For  England's  rebel  foemeu, 
'King  Hancock,'  Adams,  and  their  gang, 

That  fire  the  mob  with  treason,  — 
When  these  we   shoot    and    those  we 


The  town  will  come  to  reason." 

On  —  on  to  where  the  tea-ships  ride ! 

And  now  their  ranks  are  forming,  — 
A  rush,  and  up  the  Dartmouth's  side 

The  Mohawk  band  is  swarming  ! 
See  the  fierce  natives  !    What  a  glimpse 

Of  paint  and  fur  and  feather, 
As  all  at  once  the  full-grown  imps 

Light  on  the  deck  together  ! 
A.  scarf  the  pigtail's  secret  keeps, 

A  blanket  hides  the  breeches,  — 
And  out  the  cursed  cargo  leaps, 

And  overboard  it  pitches  ! 

0  woman,  at  the  evening  board 
So  gracious,  sweet,  and  purring, 


So  happy  while  the  tea  is  poured, 
So  blest  while  spoons  are  stirring, 

What  martyr  can  compare  with  thee, 
The  mother,  wife,  or  daughter, 

That  night,  instead  of  best  Bohea, 
Condemned  to  milk  and  water  ! 

Ah,  little  dreams  the  quiet  dame 

Who  plies  with  rock  and  spindle 
The  patient  flax,  how  great  a  flame 

Yon  little  spark  shall  kindle  ! 
The  lurid  morning  shall  reveal 

A  fire  no  king  can  smother 
Where  British  flint  and  Boston  steel 

Have  clashed  against  each  other  ! 
Old  charters  shrivel  in  its  track, 

His  Worship's  bench  has  crumbled, 
It  climbs  and  clasps  the  union-jack, 

Its  blazoned  pomp  is  humbled, 
The  flags  go  down  on  land  and  sea 

Like  corn  before  the  reapers  ; 
So  burned  the  fire  that  brewed  the  tea 

That  Boston  served  her  keepers  ! 

The   waves  that  wrought  a  century's 
wreck 

Have  rolled  o'er  whig  and  tory  ; 
The  Mohawks  on  the  Dartmouth's  deck 

Still  live  in  song  and  story  ; 
The  waters  in  the  rebel  bay 

Have  kept  the  tea-leaf  savor  ; 
Our  old  North-Enders  in  their  spray 

Still  taste  a  Hyson  flavor  ; 
And  Freedom's  teacup  still  o'erflows 

With  ever  fresh  libations, 
To  cheat  of  slumber  all  her  foes 

And  cheer  the  wakening  nations  ! 

1874. 


NEAPING  THE  SNOW  LINE. 

SLOW  toiling  upward   from  the  misty 

vale, 

I  leave  the   bright  enamelled  zone* 
below  ; 


Nearing  the  snow-line."    Page  248 


IN   THE   QUIET   DAYS. 


249 


No  more  for  me  their  beauteous  bloom 

shall  glow, 

Their  lingering  sweetness  load  the  morn- 
ing gale  ; 
Few  are  the  slender  flowerets,  scentless, 

pale, 

That  on  their  ice-clad  stems  all  trem- 
bling blow 
Along    the    margin     of    unmelting 

snow ; 

Vet  with  unsaddened  voice  thy  verge  I 
hail, 


"White  realm  of  peace  above  the  flower- 
ing line  ; 
Welcome  thy  frozen  domes,  thy  rocky 

spires  ! 
O'er  thee  undimmed  the  moon-girt 

planets  shine, 

On  thy  majestic  altars  fade  the  fires 
That  filled  the  air  with  smoke  of  vain 

desires, 
And  all  the  unclouded  blue  of  heaven 


is  thine  1 


1870. 


250 


SONGS   OF   MANY  SEASONS. 


IN   WAR    TIME. 


TO  CANAAN. 

A   PURITAN  WAR-SONG. 

WHERE  are  you  going,  soldiers, 

"With  banner,  gun,  and  sword  ? 
We  're  marching  South  to  Canaan 

To  battle  for  the  Lord  ! 
What  Captain  leads  your  armies 

Along  the  rebel  coasts  ? 
The  Mighty  One  of  Israel, 
His  name  is  Lord  of  Hosts  ! 
To  Canaan,  to  Canaan 
The  Lord  has  led  us  forth, 
To  blow  before  the  heathen  walls 
The  trumpets  of  the  North  ! 

What  flag  is  this  you  cany 
Along  the  sea  and  shore  ? 
The  same  our  grandsires  lifted  up,  — 

The  same  our  fathers  bore ! 
In  many  a  battle's  tempest 

It  shed  the  crimson  rain,  — 
What  God  has  woven  in  his  loom 
Let  no  man  rend  in  twain  ! 
To  Canaan,  to  Canaan 
The  Lord  has  led  us  forth, 
To  plant  upon  the  rebel  towers 
The  banners  of  the  North ! 

What  troop  is  this  that  follows, 
All  armed  with  picks  and  spades  I1 

These  are  the  swarthy  bondsmen,  — 
The  iron-skin  brigades! 

1  The  captured  slaves  were  at  this  time  or- 
ganized as  pioneers. 


They  '11  pile  up  Freedom's  breastwork, 

They  '11  scoop  out  rebels'  graves ; 
Who  then  will  be  their  owner 
And  march  them  off  for  slaves? 
To  Canaan,  to  Canaan 
The  Lord  has  led  us  forth, 
To  strike  upon  the  captive's  chain 
The  hammers  of  the  North ! 

What  song  is  this  you  're  singing  ? 

The  same  that  Israel  sung 
When  Moses  led  the  mighty  choir, 

And  Miriam's  timbrel  rung ! 
To  Canaan  !     To  Canaan ! 

The  priests  and  maidens  cried : 
To  Canaan  !     To  Canaan ! 
The  people's  voice  replied. 
To  Canaan,  to  Canaan 
The  Lord  has  led  us  forth, 
To  thunder  through  its  adder  dens 
The  anthems  of  the  North ! 

When  Canaan's  hosts  are  scattered, 

And  all  her  walls  lie  flat, 
What  follows  next  in  order  ? 

—  The  Lord  will  see  to  that ! 
We  '11  break  the  tyrant's  sceptre,  — 

We  '11  build  the  people's  throne,  — 
When  half  the  world  is  Freedom's, 
Then  all  the  world's  our  own ! 
To  Canaan,  to  Canaan 
The  Lord  has  led  us  forth, 
To  sweep  the  rebel  threshing-floors, 
A  whirlwind  from  the  North  1 
August  12,  1862. 


IN   WAR  TIME. 


251 


"THUS    SAITH    THE    LORD,    I    OFFER 
THEE  THREf  THINGS." 

IN  poisonous  dens,  where  traitors  hide 

Like  bats  that  fear  the  day, 
While  all  the  land  our  charters  claim 
Is  sweating  blood  and  breathing  flame, 
Dead  to  their  country's  woe  and  shame, 
The  recreants  whisper  STAY  ! 

In  peaceful  homes,  where  patriot  fires 

On  Love's  own  altars  glow, 
The  mother  hides  her  trembling  fear, 
The  wife,  the  sister,  checks  a  tear, 
To  breathe  the  parting  word  of  cheer, 

Soldier  of  Freedom,  Go  ! 

In  halls  where  Luxury  lies  at  ease, 
And  Mammon  keeps  his  state, 

Where    flatterers    fawn     and    menials 
crouch, 

The  dreamer,  startled  from  his  couch, 

Wrings  a  few  counters  from  his  pouch, 
And  murmurs  faintly  WAIT  ! 

In  weary  camps,  on  trampled  plains 

That  ring  with  fife  and  drum, 
The  battling  host,  whose  harness  gleams 
Along  the  crimson-flowing  streams, 
Calls,  like  a  warning  voice  in  dreams, 
We  want  you,  Brother  !    COME  ! 

Choose  ye  whose  bidding  ye  will  do,  — 

To  go,  to  wait,  to  stay  ! 
Sons  of  the  Freedom-loving  town, 
Heirs  of  the  Fathers'  old  renown, 
The  servile  yoke,  the  civic  crown, 

Await  your  choice  TO-DAY  ! 

The  stake  is  laid  !     0  gallant  youth 

With  yet  unsilvered  brow, 
If  Heaven  should  lose  and  Hell  should 

win, 

On  whom  shall  lie  the  mortal  sin, 
That  cries  aloud,  It  might  have  been  ? 

God  calls  you  ~-  answer  NOW. 

1862. 


NEVER  OR  NOW. 

AN  APPEAL. 

LISTEN,  young  heroes  !  your  country  is 

calling  ! 
Time  strikes  the  hour  for  the  brave 

and  the  true  ! 
Now,  while  the  foremost  are  fighting  and 

falling, 

Fill  up  the  ranks  that  have  opened  for 
you  ! 

You  whom  the  fathers  made  free  and  de- 
fended, 
Stain  not  the  scroll  that  emblazons 

their  fame  ! 

You  whose  fair  heritage  spotless    de- 
scended, 

Leave  not  your  children  a  birthright 
of  shame ! 

Stay  not  for  questions  while  Freedom 

stands  gasping ! 
Wait  not  till  Honor  lies  wrapped  in 

his  pall ! 
Brief  the  lips'  meeting  be,  swift  the 

hands'  clasping,  — 
"  Off  for  the   wars  !  "  is  enough  for 
them  all  ! 

Break  from  the  arms  that  would  fondly 

caress  you  ! 
Hark  !  't  is  the  bugle-blast,  sabres  are 

drawn  ! 
Mothers  shall  pray  for  you,  fathers  shall 

bless  you, 

Maidens  shall  weep  for  you  when  you 
are  gone  ! 

Never  or  now  !  cries  the  blood  of  a  na. 

tion, 

Poured  on  the  turf  where  the  red  rose 
should  bloom  ; 

Now  is  the  day  and  the  hour  of  salva- 
tion, — 


252 


SONGS   OF  MANY  SEASONS. 


Never  or  now  !  peals  the  trumpet  of 
doom ! 

Never  or  now  !  roars  the  hoarse-throated 

cannon 
Through  the  black   canopy  blotting 

the  skies  ; 
Never  or  now  !  flaps  the  shell-blasted 

pennon 
O'er  the  deep  ooze  where  the  Cumberland 

lies! 

From  the  foul  dens  where  our  brothers 

are  dying, 
Aliens  and  foes  in  the  land  of  their 

birth,  — 

From  the  rank  swamps  where  our  mar- 
tyrs are  lying 

Pleading  in  vain  for  a  handful  of 
earth,  — 

From  the  hot  plains  where  they  perish 

outnumbered, 

Furrowed  and  ridged  by  the  battle- 
field's  plough, 
Comes  the  loud  summons  ;  too  long  you 

have  slumbered, 
Hear  the  last  Angel-trump,  —  Never 

or  Now ! 
1862. 

ONE  COUNTRY. 

ONE  country  !    Treason's  writhing  asp 
Struck  madly  at  her  girdle's  clasp, 
And  Hatred  wrenched  with  might  and 

main 

To  rend  its  welded  links  in  twain, 
While  Mammon  hugged  his  golden  calf 
Content  to  take  one  broken  half, 
While  thankless  churls  stood  idly  by 
And  heard  unmoved  a  nation's  cry  ! 

One    country!     "Nay,"  —  the  tyrant 

crew 
Shrieked  from  their  dons,  —  "it  shall 

b«  two  ! 


Ill  bodes  to  us  this  monstrous  birth, 
That  scowls  on  all  the  thrones  of  earth, 
Too  broad  yon  starry  cluster  shines, 
Too    proudly    tower    the    New- World 

pines, 

Tear  down  the  '  banner  of  the  free,' 
And  cleave  their  land  from  sea  to  sea  !  " 

One    country    still,    though     foe    and 

"friend" 

Our  seamless  empire  strove  to  rend  ; 
Safe  !  safe  !  though  all  the  fiends  of  hell 
Join  the  red  murderers'  battle-yell  ! 
What  though  the  lifted  sabres  gleam, 
The  cannons  frown  by  shore  and  stream,  — 
The  sabres  clash,  the  cannons  thrill, 
In  wild  accord,  One  country  still  ! 

One  country  !  in  her  stress  and  strain 
We  heard  the  breaking  of  a  chain  ! 
Look    where    the    conquering    Nation 

swings 

Her  iron  flail,  —  its  shivered  rings  ! 
Forged  by  the  rebels'  crimson  hand, 
That  bolt  of  wrath  shall  scourge  the 

land 

Till  Peace  proclaims  on  sea  and  shore 
One  Country  now  and  evermore  ! 

1865. 

GOD  SAVE  THE  FLAG ! 

WASHED  in  the  blood  of  the  brave  and 

the  blooming, 
Snatched  from  the  altars  of  insolent 

foes, 

Burning  with  star-fires,  but  never  con- 
suming, 

Flash  its  broad  ribbons  of  lily  and 
rose. 

Vainly  the  prophets  of  Baal  would  rend 

it, 
Vainly  his  worshippers  pray  for  its 

fall; 


IN  WAR  TIME. 


253 


Thousands  have  died  for  it,  millions  de- 
fend it, 
Emblem  of  justice  and  mercy  to  all  : 

Justice  that  reddens  the  sky  with  her 

terrors, 

Mercy  that  comes  with  her  white- 
handed  train, 

Soothing  all  passions,  redeeming  all  er- 
rors, 

Sheathing  the  sabre  and  breaking  the 
chain. 

Borne  on  the  deluge  of   old  usurpa- 
tions, 
Drifted    our  Ark  o'er    the    desolate 


Bearing  the  rainbow  of  hope  to  the  na- 
tions, 

Torn  from  the  storm-cloud  and  flung 
to  the  breeze ! 

God  bless  the   Flag  and  its  loyal  de- 
fenders, 

While  its  broad  folds  o'er  the  battle- 
m    field  wave, 
Till  the  dim  star-wreath  rekindle  its 

splendors, 

Washed  from  its  stains  in  the  blood 
of  the  brave ! 

1865. 


HYMN 

AFTER    THE     EMANCIPATION     PROCLA- 
MATION. 

GIVER  of  all  that  crowns  our  days, 
With  grateful  hearts  we  sing  thy  praise  ; 
Through  deep  and  desert  led  by  thee, 
Our  promised  land  at  last  we  see. 

Ruler  of  Nations,  judge  our  cause  ! 
If  we  have  kept  thy  holy  laws, 


The  sons  of  Belial  curse  in  vain 

The  day  that  rends  the  captive's  chain. 

Thou  God  of  vengeance  !    Israel's  Lord  ! 
Break  in  their  grasp  the  shield  and 

sword, 
And    make    thy  righteous   judgments 

known 
Till  all  thy  foes  are  overthrown ! 

Then,  Father,  lay  thy  healing  hand 
In  mercy  on  our  stricken  land  ; 
Lead  all  its  wanderers  to  the  fold, 
And  be  their  Shepherd  as  of  old. 

So  shall  one  Nation's  song  ascend 
To  thee,  our  Ruler,  Father,  Friend, 
While    Heaven's  wide    arch    resounds 

again 
With  Peace  on  earth,  good-will  to  men  ! 

1865. 

HYMN 

FOR  THE  FAIR  AT  CHICAGO. 

0  GOD  !  in  danger's  darkest  hour, 

In  battle's  deadliest  field, 
Thy  name  has  been  our  Nation's  tower, 

Thy  truth  her  help  and  shield. 

Our  lips^hould  fill  the  air  with  praise, 

Nor  pay  the  debt  we  owe, 
So  high  above  the  songs  we  raise 

The  floods  of  mercy  flow. 

Yet    thou    wilt    hear    the    prayer   we 
speak, 

The  song  of  praise  we  sing,  — 
Thy  children,  who  thine  altar  seek 

Their  grateful  gifts  to  bring. 

Thine  altar  is  the  sufferer's  bed, 

The  home  of  woe  and  pain, 
The  soldier's  turfy  pillow,  red 

With  battle's  crimson  rain. 


254 


SONGS   OF  MANY  SEASONS. 


No  smoke  of  burning  stains  the  air, 

No  incense-clouds  arise ; 
Thy  peaceful  servants,  Lord,  prepare 

A  bloodless  sacrifice. 

Lo  !  for  our  wounded  brothers'  need, 
"We  bear  the  wine  and  oil ; 


For  us  they  faint,  for  us  they  bleed, 
For  them  our  gracious  toil ! 

0  Father,  bless  the  gifts  we  bring  ! 

Cause  thou  thy  face  to  shine, 
Till  every  nation  owns  her  King, 

And  all  the  earth  is  thine. 

1865. 


SONGS   OF  WELCOME  AND   FAREWELL. 


255 


SONGS  OF  WELCOME  AND  FAREWELL. 


AMERICA  TO  RUSSIA. 

AUGUST  5,  1866. 

READ  BY  HON.  O.  V.  FOX  AT  A  DINNER  GIVEN 
TO  THE  MISSION  FROM  THE  UNITED  STATES, 
ST.  PETERSBURG. 

THOUGH  watery  deserts  hold  apart 
The  worlds  of  East  and  West, 

Still  beats  the  selfsame  human  heart 
In  each  proud  Nation's  breast. 

Our  floating  turret  tempts  the  main 
And  dares  the  howling  blast 

To  clasp  more  close  the  golden  chain 
That  long  has  bound  them  fast. 

In  vain  the  gales  of  ocean  sweep, 

In  vain  the  billows  roar 
That  chafe  the  wild  and  stormy  steep 

Of  storied  Elsinore. 

She  comes  !    She  comes  !    her  banners 
dip 

In  Neva's  flashing  tide, 
With  greetings  on  her  cannon's  lip, 

The  storm-god's  iron  bride  ! 

Peace  garlands  with  the  olive-bough 

Her  thunder-bearing  tower, 
And  plants  before  her  cleaving  prow 

The  sea-foam's  milk-white  flower. 

No  prairies  heaped  their  garnered  store 

To  fill  her  sunless  hold, 
Not  rich  Nevada's  gleaming  ore 

Its  hidden  caves  infold, 


But  lightly  as  the  sea-bird  swings 
She  floats  the  depths  above, 

A  breath  of  flame  to  lend  her  wings, 
Her  freight  a  people's  love  ! 

When  darkness  hid  the  starry  skies 

In  war's  long  winter  night, 
One  ray  still  cheered  our  straining  eyes, 

The  far-off  Northern  light  1 

And  now  the  friendly  rays  return 

From  lights  that  glow  afar, 
Those  clustered  lamps  of  Heaven  that 
burn 

Around  the  Western  Star. 

A  nation's  love  in  tears  and  smiles 

We  bear  across  the  sea, 
0  Neva  of  the  banded  isles, 

We  moor  our  hearts  in  thee  ! 


WELCOME   TO    THE    GRAND    DUKE 
ALEXIS. 

MUSIC   HALL,    DECEMBER  9,  1871. 

SUNG  TO  THE    RUSSIAN    NATIONAL  AIR    BY  1HE 
CHILDREN  OF  THE  PUBLIC  SCHOOLS. 

SHADOWED  so  long  by  the  storm-cloud 

of  danger, 
Thou  whom  the  prayers  of  an  empire 

defend, 
Welcome,  thrice  welcome  !  but  not  as  a 

stranger, 

Come  to  the  nation  that  calls  thee  its 
friend  ! 


256 


SONGS   OF  MANY   SEASONS. 


Bleak  are  our  shores  with  the  blasts  of 

December, 

Fettered  and  chill  is  the  rivulet's  flow ; 
Throbbing  and  warm  are  the  hearts  that 

remember 

Who  was  our  friend  when  the  world 
was  our  foe. 

Look  on  the  lips  that  are  smiling  to  greet 

thee, 
See  the  fresh  flowers  that  a  people  has 

strewn  : 
Count  them  thy  sisters  and  brothers 

that  meet  thee ; 

Guest  of  the  Nation,   her  heart  is 
thine  own ! 

Fires  of  the  North,  in  eternal  commun- 
ion, 

Blend  your  broad  flashes  with  even- 
ing's bright  star ! 
God  bless  the  Empire  that  loves  the 

Great  Union ; 

Strength  to  her  people  !    Long  life  to 
the  Czar ! 


AT  THE  BANQUET  TO  THE  GRAND 
DUKE  ALEXIS. 

DECEMBER  9,  1871. 

ONE  word  to  the  guest  we  have  gathered 

to  greet ! 
The  echoes  are.  longing  that  word  to 

repeat,  — 
It  springs  to  the  lips  that  are  waiting  to 

part, 
For  its  syllables  spell  themselves  first  in 

the  heart. 


Its  accents  may  vary,  its  sound  may  be 
strange, 

But  it  bears  a  kind  message  that  noth- 
ing can  change  ; 


The  dwellers  by  Neva  its  meaning  can 

tell, 
For  the  smile,  its  interpreter,  shows  it 

full  well. 

That  word  !  How  it  gladdened  the  Pil- 
grim of  yore, 

As  he  stood  in  the  snow  on  the  desolate 
shore  ! 

When  the  shout  of  the  Sagamore  startled 
his  ear 

In  the  phrase  of  the  Saxon,  't  was  music 
to  hear! 

Ah,  little  could  Samoset  offer  our  sire,  — 
The  cabin,  the  corn-cake,  the  seat  by 

the  fire  ; 
He  had  notliing  to  give,  —  the  poor  lord 

of  the  land,  — 
But  he  gave  him  a  WELCOME,  —  his 

heart  in  his  hand ! 

The  tribe  of  the  Sachem  has  melted 
away, 

But  the  word  that  he  spoke  is  remem- 
bered to-day, 

And  the  page  that  is  red  with  the  record 
of  shame 

The  tear-drops  have  whitened  round 
Samoset's  name. 


The  word  that  he  spoke  to  the  Pilgrim 

of  old 
May  sound  like  a  tale  that  has  often 

been  told ; 
But  the  welcome  we  speak  is  as  fresh  as 

the  dew,  — 
As  the  kiss  of  a  lover,  that  always  is  new  ! 

Ay,  Guest  of  the  Nation  !  each  roof  is 
thine  own 

Through  all  the  broad  continent's  star- 
bannered  zone  ; 

From  the  shore  where  the  curtain  of 
morn  is  uprolled, 


SONGS   OF  WELCOME   AND   FAREWELL. 


257 


To  the  billows  that  flow  through  the 
gateway  of  gold. 

The  snow-crested  mountains  are  calling 

aloud ; 

Nevada  to  Ural  speaks  out  of  the  cloud, 
And  Shasta  shouts  forth,  from  his  throne 

in  the  sky, 
To  the   storm-splintered  summits,  the 

peaks  of  Altai ! 

You  must  leave  him,  they  say,  till  the 

summer  is  green ! 
Both  shores  are  his  home,  though  the 

waves  roll  between  ; 
And  then  we  '11  return  him,  with  thanks 

for  the  same, 
As  fresh  and  as  smiling  and  tall  as  he 

came. 

But  ours  is  the  region  of  Arctic  delight ; 

We  can  show  him  Auroras  and  pole- 
stars  by  night ; 

There 's  a  Muscovy  sting  in  the  ice-tem- 
pered air, 

And  our  firesides  are  warm  and  our 
maidens  are  fair. 

The  flowers  are  full-blown  in  the  gar- 
landed hall,  — 

They  will  bloom  round  his  footsteps 
wherever  they  fall ; 

For  the  splendors  of  youth  and  the  sun- 
shine they  bring 

Make  the  roses  believe  't  is  the  sum- 
mons of  Spring. 

One  word  of  our  language  he  needs  must 

know  well, 
But  another  remains  that  is  harder  to 

spell ; 
We  shall  speak  it  so  ill,  if  he  wishes  to 

learn 
How  we  utter  Farewell,  he  will  have  to 

return  ! 


AT  THE  BANQUET   TO  THE   CHINESE 
EMBASSY. 

AUGUST  21,  1868. 

BROTHERS,  whom  we  may  not  reach 
Through  the  veil  of  alien  speech, 
Welcome  !  welcome  !  eyes  can  tell 
What  the  lips  in  vain  would  spell,  -^ 
Words  that  hearts  can  understand, 
Brothers  from  the  Flowery  Land  ! 

We,  the  evening's  latest  born, 
Hail  the  children  of  the  morn  ! 
We,  the  new  creation's  birth, 
Greet  the  lords  of  ancient  earth, 
From  their  storied  walls  and  towers 
Wandering  to  these  tents  of  ours  ! 

Land  of  wonders,  fair  Cathay, 

Who  long  hast  shunned  the  staring  day, 

Hid  in  mists  of  poet's  dreams 

By  thy  blue  and  yellow  streams,  — 

Let  us  thy  shadowed  form  behold,  — 

Teach  us  as  thou  didst  of  old. 

Knowledge  dwells  with  length  of  days ; 
Wisdom  walks  in  ancient  ways  ; 
Thine  the  compass  that  could  guide 
A  nation  o'er  the  stormy  tide, 
Scourged  by  passions,  doubts,  and  fears, 
Safe  through  thrice  a  thousand  years  ! 

Looking  from  thy  turrets  gray 
Thou  hast  seen  the  world's  decay,  — 
Egypt  drowning  in  her  sands,  — 
Athens  rent  by  robbers'  hands,  — 
Rome,  the  wild  barbarian's  prey, 
Like  a  storm-cloud  swept  away  : 

Looking  from  thy  turrets  gray 
Still  we  see  thee.     Where  are  they  ? 
And  lo  !  a  new-born  nation  waits, 
Sitting  at  the  golden  gates 
That  glitter  by  the  sunset  sea,  — 
Waits  with  outspread  arms  for  thee  ! 


258 


SONGS   OF  MANY   SEASONS. 


Open  wide,  ye  gates  of  gold, 
To  the  Dragon's  banner-fold  ! 
Builders  of  the  mighty  wall, 
Bid  your  mountain  barriers  fall  ! 
So  may  the  girdle  of  the  sun 
Bind  the  East  and  West  in  one, 

Till  Mount  Shasta's  breezes  fan 
The  snowy  peaks  of  Ta  Sieue-Shan,  — 
Till  Erie  blends  its  waters  blue 
With  the  waves  of  Tung-Ting-Hu,  — 
Till  deep  Missouri  lends  its  flow 
To  swell  the  rushing  Hoang-Ho  ! 


AT  THE  BANQUET  TO  THE  JAPANESE 
EMBASSY. 

AUGUST  2,  1872. 

WE  welcome  you,  Lords  of  the  Land  of 
the  Sun  ! 

The  voice  of  the  many  sounds  feebly 
through  one  ; 

Ah  !  would  't  were  a  voice  of  more  mu- 
sical tone, 

But  the  dog-star  is  here,  and  the  song- 
birds have  flown. 

And  what  shall  I  sing  that  can  cheat  you 
of  smiles, 

Ye  heralds  of  peace  from  the  Orient 
isles  ? 

If  only  the  Jubilee —  Why  did  you 
wait? 

You  are  welcome,  but  oh  !  you  're  a  lit- 
tle too  late  ! 

We  have  greeted  our  brothers  of  Ireland 
and  France, 

Round  the  fiddle  of  Strauss  we  have 
joined  in  the  dance, 

We  have  lagered  Herr  Saro,  that  fine- 
looking  man, 

And  glorified  Godfrey,  whose  name  it  is 
Dan. 


What  a  pity !  we  've  missed  it  and  you  've 

missed  it  too, 

We  had  a  day  ready  and  waiting  for  you  ; 
We  'd   have  shown  you  —  provided,  of 

course,  you  had  come  — 
You  'd  have  heard  —  no,  you  would  n't, 

because  it  was  dumb. 

And  then  the  great  organ  !   The  chorus's 

shout  ! 
Like  the  mixture  teetotalers  call,  "Cold 

without "  — 
A  mingling  of  elements,  strong,  but  not 

sweet  ; 
And  the  drum,  just  referred  to,  that 

"couldn't  be  beat." 

The  shrines  of  our  pilgrims  are  not  like 

your  own, 
Where  white  Fusiyama  lifts  proudly  its 

cone, 
(The  snow-mantled  mountain  we  see  on 

the  fan 
That  cools  our  hot  cheeks  with  a  breeze 

from  Japan.) 

But  ours  the  wide  temple  where  worship 

is  free 
As  the  wind  of  the  prairie,  the  wave  of 

the  sea ; 
You  may  build  your  own  altar  wherever 

you  will, 
For  the  roof  of  that  temple  is  over  you 

still. 

One  dome  overarches  the  star-bannered 
shore  ; 

You  may  enter  the  Pope's  or  the  Puri- 
tan's door, 

Or  pass  with  the  Buddhist  his  gateway 
of  bronze, 

For  a  priest  is  but  Man,  be  he  bishop  or 
bonze. 

And  the  lesson  we  teach  with  the  sword 
and  the  pen 


SONGS   OF  WELCOME  AND   FAREWELL. 


259 


Is  to  all  of  God's  children,  "  We  also  are 

men  ! 
If  you  wrong  us  we  smart,  if  you  prick 

us  we  bleed, 
If  you  love  us,  no  quarrel  with  color  or 

creed  ! " 

You  '11  find  us  a  well-meaning,  free- 
spoken  crowd, 

Good-natured  enough,  but  a  little  too 
loud,  — 

To  be  sure  there  is  always  a  bit  of  a  row 

When  we  choose  our  Tycoon,  and  espe- 
cially now. 

You  '11  take  it  all   calmly,  —  we  want 

you  to  see 
What  a  peaceable  fight  such  a  contest 

can  be, 
And  of  one  thing  be  certain,  however  it 

ends, 
You  will  find  that  our  voters  have  chosen 

your  friends. 

If  the  horse  that  stands  saddled  is  first 

in  the  race, 
You  will  greet  your  old  friend  with  the 

weed  in  his  face, 
And  if  the  white  hat  and  the  White 

House  agree, 
You  '11  find  H.  G.  really  as  loving  as  he. 

But  0,  what  a  pity  —  once  more  I  must 

say  — 
That   we  could  not  have  joined  in   a 

"Japanese  day"  ! 
Such  greeting  we  give  you  to-night  as 

we  can  ; 
Long  life  to  our  brothers  and  friends  of 

Japan  ! 

The  Lord  of  the  mountain  looks  down 

from  his  crest 
As  tiie  banner  of  morning  unfurls  in  the 

West  ; 


The  Eagle  was  always  the  friend  of  the 

Sun  ; 
You  are  welcome  !  —  The  song  of  thfr 

cage -bird  is  done. 

BRYANT'S  SEVENTIETH  BIRTHDAY. 

NOVEMBER  3,  1864. 

O  EVEN-HANDED  Nature  !  we  confess 
This  life  that  men  so  honor,  love,  and 

bless 
Has  filled  thine  olden  measure.    Not  the 

less 

We  count  the  precious  seasons  that  re- 
main ; 

Strike  not  the  level  of  the  golden  grain, 
But  heap  it  high  with  years,  that  earth 
may  gain 

What  heaven  can  lose,  —  for  heaven  is 

rich  in  song  : 

Do  not  all  poets,  dying,  still  prolong 
Their  broken  chants  amid  the  seraph 

throng, 

Where,  blind  no  more,  Ionia's  bard  is 

seen, 
And  England's  heavenly  minstrel  sits 

between 
The    Mantuan    and    the   wan-cheeked 

Florentine  ? 


—  This  was  the  first  sweet  singer  in  the 

cage 
Of  our  close-woven  life.     A  new-born 

age 
Claims  in  his  vesper  song  its  heritage : 

Spare  us,  0,  spare  us  long  our  heart's 

desire  ! 
Moloch,  who  calls  our  children  through 

the  fire, 
Leaves  us  the  gentle  master  of  the  lyre. 


260 


SONGS   OF   MANY   SEASONS. 


We  count  not  on  the  dial  of  thg  sun 
The  hours,  the  minutes,  that  his  sands 

have  run  ; 
Rather,  as  on  those  flowers  that  one  by 

one 

From  earliest  dawn  their  ordered  bloom 

display 
Till  evening's  planet  with  her  guiding 

ray 
Leads  in  the  blind  old  mother  of  the 

day, 

We  reckon  by  his  songs,  each  song  a 

flower, 
The    long,   long    daylight,   numbering 

hour  by  hour, 
Each  breathing  sweetness  like  a  bridal 

bower. 

His  morning  glory  shall  we  e'er  forget? 
His  noontide's  full-blown  lily  coronet  ? 
His  evening  primrose  has  not  opened 
yet; 

Nay,  even  if  creeping  Time  should  hide 

the  skies 
In    midnight    from    his  century-laden 

eyes, 
Darkened  like  his  who  sang  of  Paradise, 

Would  not  some  hidden  song-bud  open 

bright 

As  the  resplendent  cactus  of  the  night 
That  floods  the  gloom  with  fragrance 

and  with  light  ? 

—  How  can  we  praise  the  verse  whose 

music  flows 

With  solemn  cadence  and  majestic  close, 
Pure  as  the  dew  that  filters  through  the 

rose? 


He  faltered  never,  —  nor  for  blame,  nor 

praise, 
Nor  hire,  nor  party,  shamed  his  earlier 

lays? 

But  as  his  boyhood  was  of  manliest  hue, 
So  to  his  youth  his  manly  years  wers 

true, 
All  dyed  in  royal  purple  through  and 

through ! 

He  for  whose  touch  the  lyre  of  Heaven 

is  strung 
Needs  not  the  flattering  toil  of  mortal 

tongue : 
Let  not  the  singer  grieve  to  die  unsung ! 

Marbles  forget  their  message  to  man- 
kind : 

In  his  own  verse  the  poet  still  we  find, 
In  his  own  page  his  memory  lives  en- 
shrined, 

As  in  their  amber  sweets  the  smothered 
bees,  — 

As  the  fair  cedar,  fallen  before  the 
breeze, 

Lies  self-embalmed  amidst  the  moulder- 
ing trees. 

—  Poets,  like  youngest  children,  never 

grow 
Out  of  their  mother's  fondness.    Nature 

so 
Holds  their  soft  hands,  and  will  not  let 

them  go, 

Till  at  the  last  they  track  with  even  feet 
Her  rhythmic  footsteps,  and  their  pulses 

beat 
Twinned  with  her  pulses,  and  their  lips 

repeat 


How  shall  we  thank  him  that  in  evil  j  The  secrets  she  has  told  them,  as  their 
days  I         own : 


SONGS   OF  WELCOME  AND   FAREWELL. 


261 


Thus  is  the  inmost  soul  of  Nature  known, 
And  the  rapt  minstrel  shares  her  awful 
throne ! 

0  lover  of  her  mountains  and  her  woods, 
Her  bridal  chamber's  leafy  solitudes, 
Where   Love    himself   with   tremulous 
step  intrudes, 

Her  snows  fall  harmless  on  thy  sacred 

fire: 
Far  be  the  day  that  claims  thy  sounding 

lyre 
To  join  the  music  of  the  angel  choir  1 

Yet,  since  life's  amplest  measure  must 

be  filled, 
Since  throbbing  hearts  must  be  forever 

stilled, 
And  all  must  fade  that  evening  sunsets 

gild, 

Grant,  Father,  ere  he  close  the  mortal 

eyes 

That  see  a  Nation's  reeking  sacrifice, 
Its  smoke  may  vanish  from  these  black- 
ened skies  ! 

Then,  when  his  summons  comes,  since 
come  it  must, 

And,  looking  heavenward  with  unfalter- 
ing trust, 

He  wraps  his  drapery  round  him  for  the 
dust, 

His  last  fond  glance  will  show  him  o'er 

his  head 
The  Northern  fires  beyond  the  zenith 

spread 
In  lambent  glory,  blue  and  white  and 

red,  — 

The  Southern  cross  without  its  bleeding 
load, 


The   milky   way   of   peace   all  freshly 

strowed, 
And  every  white-throned  star  fixed  in 

its  lost  abode  ! 


AT  A  DINNER  TO  GENERAL  GRANT. 

JULY  31,  1865. 

WHEN  treason  first  began  the  strife 

That  crimsoned  sea  and  shore, 
The  Nation  poured  her  hoarded  life 

On  Freedom's  threshing-floor ; 
From  field  and  prairie,  east  and  west, 

From  coast  and  hill  and  plain, 
The  sheaves  of  ripening  manhood  pressed 

Thick  as  the  bearded  grain. 

Rich  was  the  harvest ;  souls  as  true 

As  ever  battle  tried  ; 
But  fiercer  still  the  conflict  grew, 

The  floor  of  death  more  wide ; 
Ah,  who  forgets  that  dreadful  day 

Whose  blot  of  grief  and  shame 
Four  bitter  years  scarce  wash  away 

In  seas  of  blood  and  flame  ? 

Vain,  vain  the  Nation's  lofty  boasts,  -•  • 

Vain  all  her  sacrifice ! 
"  Give  me  a  man  to  lead  my  hosts, 

0  God  in  heaven  !  "  she  cries. 
While  Battle  whirls  his  crushing  flail, 

And  plies  his  winnowing  fan,  — 
Thick  flies  the  chaff  on  every  gale,  — 

She  cannot  find  her  man ! 

Bravely  they  fought  who  failed  to  win,  — 

Our  leaders  battle-scarred,  — 
Fighting  the  hosts  of  hell  and  sin, 

But  devils  die  always  hard  ! 
Blame  not  the  broken  tools  of  God 

That  helped  our  sorest  needs ; 
Through  paths  that  martyr  feet  have  trod 

The  conqueror's  steps  he  leads. 


262 


SONGS   OF  MANY   SEASONS. 


But  now  the  heavens  grow  black  with 

doubt, 

The  ravens  fill  the  sky, 
"Friends"  plot  within,  foes  storm  with- 
out, 

Hark,  —  that  despairing  cry, 
"Where  is  the  heart,   the  hand,   the 

brain 

To  dare,  to  do,  to  plan  ? " 
The  bleeding  Nation  shrieks  in  vain, — 
She  has  not  found  her  man  ! 

A  little  echo  stirs  the  air,  — 

Some  tale,  whate'er  it  be, 
Of  rebels  routed  in  their  lair 

Along  the  Tennessee. 
The  little  echo  spreads  and  grows, 

And  soon  the  trump  of  Fame 
Had  taught  the   Nation's  friends  and 
foes 

The  "man  on  horseback  "  's  name. 

So  well  his  warlike  wooing  sped, 

No  fortress  might  resist 
His  billets-doux  of  lisping  lead, 

The  bayonets  in  his  fist,  — 
With  kisses  from  his  cannons'  mouth 

He  made  his  passion  known 
Till  Vicksburg,  vestal  of  the  South, 

Unbound  her  virgin  zone. 

And  still  where'er  his  banners  led 

He  conquered  as  he  came, 
The  trembling  hosts  of  treason  fled 

Before  his  breath  of  flame, 
And  Fame's  still  gathering  echoes  grew 

Till  high  o'er  Richmond's  towers 
The  starry  fold  of  Freedom  flew, 

And  all  the  land  was  ours. 

Welcome  from  fields  where  valor  fought 
To  feasts  where  pleasure  waits  ; 

A  Nation  gives  you  smiles  unbought 
At  all  her  opening  gates  ! 


Forgive  us  when  we  press  your  hand,  — 
Your  war-worn  features  scan,  — 

God  sent  you  to  a  bleeding  land  ; 
Our  Nation  found  its  man  I 


AT  A  DINNER  TO  ADMIRAL  FARRAGUT. 


Now,  smiling  friends  and  shipmates  all, 

Since  half  our  battle  's  won, 
A  broadside  for  our  Admiral ! 

—  Load  every  crystal  gun  ! 
Stand  ready  till  I  give  the  word,  — 

—  You  won't  have  time  to  tire,  — 
And  when  that  glorious  name  is  heard, 

Then  hip  !  hurrah  !  and  fire  ! 

Bow  foremost  sinks  the  rebel  craft,  — 

Our  eyes  not  sadly  turn 
And  see  the  pirates  huddling  aft 

To  drop  their  raft  astern  ; 
Soon  o'er  the  sea-worm's  destined  prey 

The  lifted  wave  shall  close,  — 
So  perish  from  the  face  of  day 

All  Freedom's  banded  foes  ! 

But  ah  !  what  splendors  fire  the  sky  1 

What  glories  greet  the  morn  ! 
The  storm-tost  banner  streams  on  high 

Its  heavenly  hues  new-born  ! 
Its  red  fresh  dyed  in  heroes'  blood, 

Its  peaceful  white  more  pure, 
To  float  unstained  o'er  field  and  flood 

While  earth  and  seas  endure  ! 

All  shapes  before  the  driving  blast 

Must  glide  from  mortal  view  ; 
Black  roll  the  billows  of  the  past 

Behind  the  present's  blue, 
Fast,  fast,  are  lessening  in  the  light 

The  names  of  high  renown,  — 
Van  Tromp's  proud  besom  fades  from 
sight, 

And  Nelson  's  half  hull  down  1 


SONGS   OF  WELCOME  AND   FAREWELL. 


263 


Scarce  one  tall  frigate  walks  the  sea 

Or  skirts  the  safer  shores 
Of  all  that  bore  to  victory 

Our  stout  old  Commodores  ; 
Hull,  Bainbridge,  Porter,  —  where  are 
they? 

The  waves  their  answer  roll, 
"  Still  bright  in  memory's  sunset  ray,  — 

God  rest  each  gallant  soul ! " 

A  brighter  name  must  dim  their  light 

With  more  than  noontide  ray, 
The  Sea- King  of  the  "  River  Fight," 

The  Conqueror  of  the  Bay,  — 
Now  then  the  broadside  !  cheer  on  cheer 

To  greet  him  safe  on  shore  ! 
Health,  peace,  and  many  a  bloodless  year 

To  fight  his  battles  o'er  ! 


A  TOAST  TO  WILKIE  COLLINS. 

FEBRUARY  16,  1874. 

THE  painter's  and  the  poet's  fame 
Shed  their  twinned   lustre   round   his 

name, 

To  gild  our  story-teller's  art, 
Where  each  in  turn  must  play  his  part. 

What  scenes  from  Wilkie's  pencil  sprung, 
The  minstrel  saw  but  left  unsung  ! 
What  shapes  the  pen  of  Collins  drew, 
No  painter  clad  in  living  hue  ! 

But  on  our  artist's  shadowy  screen 
A  stranger  miracle  is  seen 
Than  priest  unveils  or  pilgrim  seeks,  — 
The  poem  breathes,  the  picture  speaks  ! 

And  so  his  double  name  comes  true, 
They  christened  better  than  they  knew, 
And  Art  proclaims  him  twice  her  son,  — 
Painter  and  poet,  both  in  one ! 


TO  H.  W.  LONGFELLOW. 

BEFORE    HIS   DEPARTURE   FOR   EUROPE, 
MAY  27,  1868. 

OUR  Poet,  who  has  taught  the  Western 
breeze 

To  waft  his  songs  before  him  o'er  the 
seas, 

Will  find  them  wheresoe'er  his  wan- 
derings reach 

Borne  on  the  spreading  tide  of  English 

speech 

Twin  with  the  rhythmic  waves  that  kiss 
the  farthest  beach. 

Where  shall  the  singing  bird  a  stranger 

be 

That  finds  a  nest  for  him  in  every  tree  ? 
How  shall  he  travel  who  can  never  go 
Where  his  own  voice  the  echoes  do 

not  know, 
Where  his  own  garden  flowers  no  longer 

learn  to  grow  ? 

Ah,  gentlest  soul !  how  gracious,  how 
benign 

Breathes  through  our  troubled  life  that 
voice  of  thine, 

Filled  with  a  sweetness  born  of  hap- 
pier spheres, 

That  wins  and  warms,  that  kindles, 

softens,  cheers, 

That  calms  the  wildest  woe  and  stays 
the  bitterest  tears  ! 

Forgive  the  simple  words  that  sound 

like  praise  ; 
The  mist  before  me  dims  my  gilded 

phrase  ; 
Our  speech  at  best  is  half  alive  and 

cold, 
And  save  that  tenderer  moments  make 

us  bold 
Our  whitening  lips  would  close,   their 

truest  truth  untold. 


264 


SONGS   OF  MANY   SEASONS. 


We  who  behold  our  autumn  suu  below 

The  Scorpion's  sign,  against  the  Arch- 
er's bow, 

Know  well  what   parting  means  of 
friend  from  friend ; 

After  the  snows  no  freshening  dews 

descend, 

And  what  the  frost  has  marred,  the  sun- 
shine will  not  mend. 

So  we  all  count  the  months,  the  weeks, 

the  days, 
That  keep  thee  from  us  in  unwonted 

ways, 
Grudging  to  alien  hearths  our  widowed 

time ; 
And  one  has  shaped  a  breath  in  artless 

rhyme 
That  sighs,  "We  track  thee  still  through 

each  remotest  clime." 

What    wishes,    longings,    blessings, 

prayers  shall  be 
The  more  than  golden  freight  that 

floats  with  thee  ! 
And  know,  whatever  welcome  thou 

shalt  find,  — 
Thou  who  hast  won  the  hearts  of  half 

mankind,  — 
The  proudest,  fondest  love  thou  leavest 

still  behind  ! 


TO   CHRISTIAN    GOTTFRIED    EHREN- 
BERG. 

FOR   HIS    "JUBIL.EUM"    AT    BERLIN, 
NOVEMBER  5.  1868. 

THOU  who  hast  taught  the  teachers  of 

mankind 
How  from   the  least  of  things  the 

mightiest  grow, 
What  marvel  jealous  Nature  made  thee 

blind, 


long  to  know  ? 


Thou  in  the  flinty  rock,  the  river's  flow, 
In  the  thick-moted  sunbeam's  sifted 

light 
Hast  trained  thy  downward-pointed  tube 

to  show 

Worlds  within  worlds  unveiled  to  mor- 
tal sight, 
Even  as  the  patient   watchers  of  the 

night,  — 
The  cyclope  gleaners  of  the  fruitful 

skies,  — 
Show  the  wide  misty  way  where  heaven 

is  white 

All  paved  with  suns  that  daze  our 
wondering  eyes. 

Far  o'er  the  stormy  deep  an  empire  lies, 
Beyond    the  storied  islands  of   the 

blest, 
That  waits  to  see.  the  lingering  day-star 

rise  ; 
The    forest-cinctured    Eden    of    the 

West; 
Whose  queen,  fair  Freedom,  twines  her 

iron  crest 
With  leaves  from  every  wreath  that 

mortals  wear, 

But  loves  the  sober  garland  ever  best 
That  Science  lends  the  sage's  silvered 

hair  ;  — 
Science,  who  makes  life's  heritage  more 

fair, 
Forging  for  every  lock  its  mastering 

key, 
Filling  with  life  and  hope  the  stagnant 

air, 
Pouring  the  light  of  Heaven  o'er  land 

and  sea  ! 
From  her  unsceptred  realm  we  come  to 

thee, 
Bearing  our  slender  tribute  in  our 

hands  ; 
Deem  it  not  worthless,  humble  though 

it  be, 
Set  by  the  larger  gifts  of  older  lands  :    * 


SONGS   OF  WELCOME  AND   FAREWELL. 


265 


The  smallest  fibres  weave  the  strongest 

bands,  — 
In  narrowest  tubes  the  sovereign  nerves 

are  spun,  — 

A  little  cord  along  the  deep  sea-sands 
Makes  the  live  thought  of  severed  na- 
tions one  : 
Thy  fame  has  journeyed  westering  with 

the  sun, 
Prairies  and  lone   sierras  know  thy 

name 

And  the  long  day  of  service  nobly  done 
That  crowns  thy  darkened  evening 
with  its  flame  ! 

One  with  the  grateful  world,  we  own  thy 

claim,  — 

Nay,  rather  claim  our  right  to  join  the 
throng 


Who  come  with  varied  tongues,   but 

hearts  the  same, 
To  hail  thy  festal  morn  with  smiles 

and  song ; 

Ah,  happy  they  to  whom  the  joys  be- 
long 

Of  peaceful  triumphs  that  cannever  die 
From  History's  record,  —  not  of  gilded 

wrong, 
But    golden  truths    that  while  the 

world  goes  by 
With  all  its  empty  pageant,  blazoned 

high 
Around    the  Master's  name  forever 

shine ! 
So  shines  thy  name  illumined  in  the 

sky,— 

Such  joys,  such  triumphs,  such  re- 
membrance thine  I 


266 


SONGS   OF  MANY   SEASONS. 


MEMOEIAL    VERSES. 


FOR  THE  SERVICES   IN   MEMORY   OF 
ABRAHAM    LINCOLN. 

CITY  OF  BOSTON,  JUNE  1,  1865. 
CHORAL  :  Luther's  "Judgment  Hymn." 

0  THOU  of  soul  and  sense  and  breath, 

The  ever-present  Giver, 
Unto  thy  mighty  Angel,  Death, 

All  flesh  thou  dost  deliver  ; 
What  most  we  cherish  we  resign, 
For  life  and  death  alike  are  thine, 

Who  reignest  Lord  forever  ! 

Our  hearts  lie  buried  in  the  dust 
With  him  so  true  and  tender, 

The  patriot's  stay,  the  people's  trust, 
The  shield  of  the  offender  ; 

Yet  every  murmuring  voice  is  still, 

As,  bowing  to  thy  sovereign  will, 
Our  best-loved  we  surrender. 

Dear  Lord,  with  pitying  eye  behold 

This  martyr  generation, 
Which  thou,  through  trials  manifold, 

Art  showing  thy  salvation  ! 
0  let  the  blood  by  murder  spilt 
Wash  out  thy  stricken  children's  guilt 

And  sanctify  our  nation  ! 

Be  thou  thy  orphaned  Israel's  friend, 
Forsake  thy  people  never, 

In  One  our  broken  Many  blend, 
That  none  again  may  sever  ! 

Hear  us,  0  Father,  while  we  raise 

With  trembling  lips  our  song  of  praise, 
And  bless  thy  name  forever  ! 


FOR  THE  COMMEMORATION   SER- 
VICES. 

CAMBRIDGE,   JULY  21,  1865. 

FOUR  summers  coined  their  golden  light 

in  leaves, 
Four  wasteful  autumns  flung  them  to 

the  gale, 

Four  winters  wore  the  shroud  the  tem- 
pest weaves, 

The  fourth  wan  April  weeps  o'er  hill 
and  vale  ; 

And  still  the  war-clouds  scowl  on  sea 

and  land, 
With  the  red  gleams  of  battle  staining 

through, 
When  lo  !    as    parted    by  an    angel's 

hand, 

They  open,  and  the  heavens  again  are 
blue  ! 

Which  is  the  dream,  the  present  or  the 

past  ? 
The  night  of  anguish  or  the  joyous 

morn  ? 

The  long,  long  years  with  horrors  over- 
cast, 

Or  the  sweet  promise  of  the  day  new- 
born ? 

Tell  us,  0  father,  as  thine  arms  infold 
Thy  belted  first-born  in  their  fast  em- 

brace, 
Murmuring    the    prayer  the   patriarch 

breathed  of  old,  — 
"  Now  let  me  die,  for  I  have  seen  thy 
face  ! " 


MEMORIAL   VERSES. 


267 


Tell  us,  0  mother,  —  nay,  thou  canst 

not  speak, 
But    thy    fond    eyes    shall  answer, 

brimmed  with  joy,  — 
Press  thy  mute  lips  against  the  sun- 
browned  cheek, 

Is  this  a  phantom,  — thy  returning 
boy? 

Tell  us,  0  maiden  —    Ah,  what  canst 

thou  tell 
That  Nature's  record  is  not  first  to 

teach, — 

The  open  volume  all  can  read  so  well, 
With  its  twin  rose-hued  pages  full  of 
speech  ? 

And  ye  who  mourn  your  dead,  -—  how 

sternly  true 
The  crushing  hour  that  wrenched  their 

lives  away, 
Shadowed  with  sorrow's  midnight  veil 

for  you, 

For  them  the  dawning  of  immortal 
day  ! 

Dream-like  these  years  of  conflict,  not  a 

dream  ! 

Death,  ruin,  ashes  tell  the  awful  tale, 
Read  by  the  flaming  war-track's  lurid 

gleam  : 

No  dream,  but  truth  that  turns  the 
nations  pale  ! 

For   on  the  pillar    raised   by  martyr 

hands 
Burns  the  rekindled  beacon  of  the 

right, 
Sowing  its  seeds  of  fire  o'er   all   the 

lands,  — 

Thrones  look  a  century  older  in  its 
light  ! 

Rome  had  her  triumphs  ;  round  the  con- 
queror's car 


The  ensigns  waved,  the  brazen  clar- 
ions blew, 

And  o'er  the  reeking  spoils  of  bandit 
war 

With  outspread  wings  the  cruel  eagles 
flew ; 

Arms,  treasures,  captives,  kings  in  clank- 
ing chains 
Urged  on  by  trampling  cohorts  bronzed 

and  scarred, 
And  wild-eyed  wonders  snared  on  Lyb- 

ian  plains, 
Lion  and  ostrich  and  camelopard. 

Vain  all  that  praetors   clutched,    that 

consuls  brought 
When     Rome's     returning     legions 

crowned  their  lord  ; 
Less  than  the  least  brave   deed  these 

hands  have  wrought, 
We  clasp,  unclinching  from  the  bloody 
sword. 

Theirs  was  the  mighty  work  that  seers 

foretold  ; 
They  know  not  half  their  glorious  toil 

has  won, 
For  this  is  Heaven's  same  battle,  — • 

joined  of  old 

When  Athens  fought  for  us  at  Mara- 
thon ! 


—  Behold  a  vision  none  hath  under- 
stood ! 

The  breaking  of  the  Apocalyptic  seal ; 
Twice  rings  the  summons.  —  Hail  and 

fire  and  blood  ! 

Then  the  third  angel  blows  his  trum- 
pet-peal. 

Loud  wail  the  dwellers  on  the  myrtled 

coasts, 

The  green  savanna?  swell  the  mad- 
dened cry, 


268 


SONGS   OF   MANY   SEASONS. 


And  with  a  yell  from  all  the  demon  hosts 
Falls  the  great  star  called  Wormwood 
from  the  sky ! 

Bitter  it  mingles  with  the  poisoned  flow 
Of  the  warm  rivers  winding  to  the 

shore, 
Thousands   must  drink  the   waves    of 

death  and  woe, 

But  the  star  Wormwood  stains  the 
heavens  no  more ! 

Peace  smiles  at  last ;  the  Nation  calls 

her  sons 
To  sheathe  the  sword  ;  her  battle-flag 

she  furls, 
Speaks  in  glad  thunders  from  unshotted 

guns, 

No  terror  shrouded  in  the  smoke- 
wreath's  curls. 

O  ye  that  fought  for  Freedom,  living, 

dead, 
One  sacred  host  of  God's  anointed 

Queen, 

For  every  holy  drop  your  veins  have  shed 
We  breathe  a  welcome  to  our  bowers 
of  green  ! 

Welcome,  ye  living  !  from  the  foeman's 

gripe 
Your  country's  banner  it  was  yours 

to  wrest,  — 

Ah,  many  a  forehead  shows  the  banner- 
stripe, 

And  stars,  once  crimson,  hallow  many 
a  breast. 

And  ye,  pale  heroes,  who  from  glory's 

bed 
Mark  when  your  old  battalions  form 

in  line, 
Move    in    their  marching  ranks  with 

noiseless  tread, 

And  shape  unheard  the  evening  coun- 
tersign, 


Come  with  your  comrades,  the  returning 

brave  ; 
Shoulder  to  shoulder  they  await  you 

here  ; 
These  lent  the  life  their  martyr-brothers 

gave, — 
Living  and  dead  alike  forever  dear  ! 


EDWARD  EVERETT. 

"OUR   FIRST   CITIZEN."1 

WINTER'S  cold  drift  lies  glistening  o'er 

his  breast ; 
For  him  no  spring  shall  bid  the  leaf 

unfold : 
What  Love  could  speak,  by  sudden  grief 

oppressed, 

What  swiftly  summoned  Memory  tell, 
is  told. 

Even  as  the  bells,   in  one  consenting 

chime, 
Filled  with  their  sweet  vibrations  all 

the  air, 
So  joined  all  voices,  in  that  mournful 

time, 

His  genius,  wisdom,  virtues,  to  de- 
clare. 

What  place  is  left  for  words  of  measured 

praise, 
Till  calm-eyed  History,  with  her  iron 

pen, 
Grooves  in   the  unchanging  rock   the 

final  phrase 

That  shapes  his  image  in  the  souls  of 
men  ? 

Yet  while  the  echoes  still  repeat  his 

name, 

While  countless  tongues  his  full-orbed 
life  rehearse, 

1  Read  at  the  meeting  of  the  MassachusetU 
Historical  Society,  January  30, 1865. 


MEMORIAL   VERSES. 


269 


Love,  by  his  beating  pulses  taught,  will 

claim 

The  breath  of  song,  the  tuneful  throb 
of  verse,  — 

Verse  that,  in  ever-changing  ebb  and 

flow, 
Moves,  like  the  laboring  heart,  with 

rush  and  rest, 
Or  swings  in  solemn  cadence,  sad  and 

slow, 

Like  the  tired  heaving  of  a  grief- worn 
breast. 

• —  This  was  a  mind  so  rounded,  so  com- 
plete ; 

No  partial  gift  of  Nature  in  excess ; 
That,  like  a  single  stream  where  many 

meet, 

Each  separate  talent  counted  some- 
thing less. 

A  little  hillock,  if  it  lonely  stand, 
Holds  o'er  the  fields  an  undisputed 

reign; 

While  the  broad  summit  of  the  table- 
land 

Seems  with  its  belt  of  clouds  a  level 
plain. 

Servant  of  all  his  powers,  that  faithful 

slave, 
Unsleeping    Memory,    strengthening 

with  his  toils, 

To  every  ruder  task  his  shoulder  gave, 
And  loaded  every  day  with  golden 
spoils. 

Order,  the  law  of  Heaven,  was  throned 

supreme 
O'er  action,  instinct,  impulse,  feeling, 

thought ; 

True  as  the  dial's  shadow  to  the  beam, 
Each  hour  was  equal  to  the  charge  it 
brought. 


Too  large  his  compass  for  the  nicer  skill 
That  weighs  the  world  of  science  grain 

by  grain  ; 

All  realms  of  knowledge  owned  the  mas- 
tering will 

That    claimed  the  franchise    of   its 
whole  domain. 

Earth,  air,  sea,  sky,  the  elemental  fire, 
Art,  history,  song,  —  what  meanings 

lie  in  each 
Found  in  his  cunning  hand  a  stringless 

lyre, 

And  poured  their    mingling    music 
through  his  speech. 

Thence  flowed  those  anthems  of  our  fes- 
tal days, 

Whose  ravishing  division  held  apart 
The  lips  of  listening  throngs  in  sweet 

amaze, 

Moved  in  all  breasts   the    selfsame 
human  heart. 

Subdued  his  accents,  as  of  one  who  tries 
To  press  some  care,   some  haunting 

sadness  down ; 
His  smile  half  shadow  ;  and  to  stranger 

eyes 

The    kingly  forehead  wore  an  iron 
crown. 

He  was  not  armed  to  wrestle  with  the 

storm, 
To  fight  for  homely  truth  with  vulgar 

power ; 
Grace  looked  from  every  feature,  shaped 

his  form,  — 

The  rose  of  Academe,  —  the  perfect 
flower ! 

Such  was  the  stately  scholar  whom  we 

knew 

In   those  ill  days  of  soul-enslaving 
calm, 


270 


SONGS   OF   MANY   SEASONS. 


Before  the  blast  of  Northern  vengeance 

blew 

Her  snow-wreathed  pine  against  the 
Southern  palm. 

Ah,  God  forgive  us  !  did  we  hold  too 

cheap 
The  heart  we  might  have  known,  but 

would  not  see, 
And  look  to  find  the  nation's  friend 

asleep 

Through  the  dread  hour  of  her  Geth- 
semane  ? 

That  wrong  is  past ;  we  gave  him  up  to 

Death 
With  all  a  hero's  honors  round  his 

name ; 
As  martyrs  coin  their  blood,  he  coined 

his  breath, 

And  dimmed  the  scholar's    in    the 
patriot's  fame. 

So   shall  we  blazon   on   the   shaft  we 

raise,  — 

Telling  our  grief,  our  pride,  to  un- 
born years, — 
"He  who  had  lived  the  mark  of  all 

men's  praise 

Died  with  the  tribute  of  a  Nation's 
tears." 


SHAKESPEARE. 

TERCENTENNIAL  CELEBRATION. 
APRIL  23, 1864. 

"Wno  claims   our  Shakespeare  from 

that  realm  unknown, 
Beyond   the  storm-vexed  islands  of 

the  deep, 
Where    Genoa's    roving    mariner    was 

blown? 

Her  twofold  Saint's-day  let  our  Eng- 
land keep  ; 


Shall  warring   aliens   share    her    holy 

task?" 
The  Old  World  echoes  ask. 

0  land  of  Shakespeare  !  ours  with  all 

thy  past, 
Till  these  last  years  that  make  the 

sea  so  wide, 

Think  not  the  jar  of  battle's  trumpet- 
blast 
Has  dulled  our  aching  sense  to  joyous 

pride 

In  every  noble  word  thy  sons  bequeathed 
The  air  our  fathers  breathed  ! 


War-wasted,  haggard,  panting  from  the 

strife, 
We  turn  to  other  days  and  far-off 

lands, 

Live  o'er  in  dreams  the  Poet's  faded  life, 
Come  with  fresh  lilies  in  our  fevered 

hands 
To  wreathe  his  bust,  and  scatter  purple 

flowers,  — 
Not  his  the  need,  but  ours ! 


We  call  those  poets  who  are   first  to 

mark 
Through  earth's  dull  mist  the  coming 

of  the  dawn,  — 
Who  see  in  twilight's  gloom  the  first 

pale  spark, 
While  others  only  note  that  day  is 

gone  ; 
For  him  the  Lord  of  light  the  curtain 

rent 
That  veils  the  firmament. 


The  greatest  for  its  greatness  is  half 

known, 

Stretching  beyond  our  narrow  quad- 
rant-lines, — 

As  in  that  world  of  Nature  all  outgrown 
Where  Calaveras  lifts  his  awful  pines, 


THE    SHAKESPEARE    BUST  AT    STRATFORD.      Page  ->7» 


MEMORIAL   VERSES. 


271 


And   cast   from  Mariposa's  mountain- 
wall 
Nevada's  cataracts  fall. 

Yet  heaven's  remotest  orb  is  partly  ours, 
Throbbing  its  radiance  like  a  beating 

heart; 

In  the  wide  compass  of  angelic  powers 
The  instinct  of  the  blindworm  has  its 

part; 

So  in  God's  kingliest  creature  we  behold 
The  flower  our  buds  infold. 


With  no  vain  praise  we  mock  the  stone- 
carved  name 
Stamped  once  on  dust   that  moved 

with  pulse  and  breath, 
As  thinking  to   enlarge   that  amplest 

fame 
Whose  undimmed    glories  gild    the 

night  of  death : 
We  praise  not  star  or  sun  ;  in  these  we 

see 
Thee,  Father,  only  thee  ! 

Thy  gifts  are  beauty,  wisdom,  power, 

and  love: 
We  read,  we  reverence  on  this  human 

soul,  — 
Earth's  clearest    mirror    of   the    light 

above,  — 
Plain  as  the  record  on  thy  prophet's 


When  o'er  his  page  the  effluent  splen- 
dors poured, 
Thine  own,  ' ' Thus  saith  the  Lord ! " 

This  player  was  a  prophet  from  on  high, 
Thine  own  elected.     Statesman,  poet, 

sage, 
For  him  thy  sovereign  pleasure  passed 

them  by ; 

Sidney's  fair  youth,   and    Raleigh's 
ripened  age, 


Spenser's  chaste  soul,  and  his  imperial 

mind 
Who  taught  and  shamed  mankind. 

Therefore  we  bid  our  hearts'  Te  Deum 


Nor  fear  to  make  thy  worship  less  di- 
vine, 
And  hear  the  shouted  choral  shake  the 

skies, 

Counting  all  glory,  power,  and  wis- 
dom thine ; 
For  thy  great  gift  thy  greater  name 

adore, 
And  praise  thee  evermore ! 

In  this  dread  hour  of  Nature's  utmost 

need, 
Thanks  for  these  unstained  drops  of 

freshening  dew ! 
0,  while  our  martyrs  fall,  our  heroes 

bleed, 
Keep  us  to  every  sweet  remembrance 

true, 
Till  from  this  blood-red  sunset  springs 

new-born 
Our  Nation's  second  morn ! 


IN  MEMORY  OF  JOHN  AND  ROBERT 
WARE. 

READ  AT  THE  ANNUAL  MEETING  OF 
THE  MASSACHUSETTS  MEDICAL  SO- 
CIETY, MAY  25,  1864. 

No  mystic  charm,  no  mortal  art, 

Can  bid  our  loved  companions  stay  ; 
The  bands  that  clasp  them  to  our  heart 
Snap  in  death's  frost  and  fall  apart ; 
Like  shadows  fading  with  the  day, 
They  pass  away. 

The  young  are  stricken  in  their  pride, 

The  old,  long  tottering,  faint  and  fall ; 
Master  and  scholar,  side  by  side, 


272 


SONGS  OF   MANY   SEASONS. 


Through  the  dark  portals  silent  glide, 
That  open  in  life's  mouldering  wall 
And  close  on  all. 

Our  friend's,  our  teacher's  task  was  done, 
When  Mercy  called  him  from  on  high ; 
A  little  cloud  had  dimmed  the  sun, 
The  saddening  hours  had  just  begun, 
And  darker  days  were  drawing  nigh : 
'T  was  time  to  die. 

A  whiter  soul,  a  fairer  mind, 

A  life  with  purer  course  and  aim, 
A  gentler  eye,  a  voice  more  kind, 
We  may  not  look  on  earth  to  find. 
The  love  that  lingers  o'er  his  name 
Is  more  than  fame. 

These  blood-red  summers  ripen  fast ; 

The  sons  are  older  than  the  sires ; 
Ere  yet  the  tree  to  earth  is  cast, 
The  sapling  falls  before  the  blast ; 

Life's  ashes  keep  their  covered  fires,  — 
Its  flame  expires. 

Struck  by  the  noiseless,  viewless  foe, 
Whose  deadlier  breath  than  shot  or 

shell 

Has  laid  the  best  and  bravest  low, 
His  boy,  all  bright  in  morning's  glow, 
That  high-souled  youth  he  loved  so 

well, 
Untimely  fell. 

Yet  still  he  wore  his  placid  smile, 

And,  trustful  in  the  cheering  creed 
That  strives  all  sorrow  to  beguile, 
Walked  calmly  on  his  way  awhile  : 
Ah,  breast  that  leans  on  breaking  reed 
Must  ever  bleed  ! 

So  they  both  left  us,  sire  and  son, 

With  opening  leaf,  with  laden  bough  : 
The  youth  whose  race  was  just  begun, 
The  wearied  man  whose  course  was  run, 
Its  record  written  on  his  brow, 
Are  brothers  now. 


Brothers  !  —  The  music  of  the  sound 
Breathes  softly  through  my  closing 

strain  ; 

The  floor  we  tread  is  holy  ground, 
Those  gentle  spirits  hovering  round, 
While  our  fair  circle  joins  again 
Its  broken  chain. 

1864. 


HUMBOLDT'S  BIRTHDAY. 

CENTENNIAL  CELEBRATION,  SEPTEM- 
BER  14,  1869. 

BONAPARTE,     AUGUST    15,    1769.  —  HUM- 
BOJ,DT,    SEPTEMBER  14,  1769. 

ERE  yet  the  warning  chimes  of  midnight 

sound, 

Set  back  the  flaming  index  of  the  year, 
Track  the  swift-shifting  seasons  in  their 

round 

Through  fivescore  circles  of  the  swing- 
ing sphere. 

Lo,  in  yon  islet  of  the  midland  sea 
That  cleaves  the  storm-cloud  with  'ta 

snowy  crest, 

The  embryo-heir  of  Empires  yet  to  be, 
A  month-old  babe  upon  his  mother's 
breast. 

Those  little  hands  that  soon  shall  grow 

so  strong 
In  their  rude  grasp  great  thrones  shall 

rock  and  fall, 
Press  her  soft  bosom,  while  a  nursery 

song 

Holds  the  world's  master  in  its  slender 
thrall. 

Look !  a  new  crescent  bends  its  silver 

bow ; 

A  new-lit  star  has  fired  the  eastern 
sky; 


MEMORIAL   VERSES. 


273 


Hark  !  by  the  river  where  the  lindens 

blow 

A  waiting  household  hears  an  infant's 
cry. 

This,  too,  a  conqueror  !     His  the  vast 

domain, 
Wider  than  widest  sceptre-shadowed 

lands ; 
Earth,  and  the  weltering  kingdom  of  the 

main 

Laid  their  broad  charters  in  his  royal 
hands. 


His  was  no  taper  lit  in  cloistered  cage, 
Its  glimmer  borrowed  from  the  grove 
or  porch ; 

He  read  the  record  of  the  planet's  page 
By  Etna's  glare  and  Cotopaxi's  torch. 

He  heard  the  voices  of  the  pathless 

woods ; 

On  the  salt  s'teppes  he  saw  the  star- 
light shine ; 

He  scaled  the  mountain's  windy  soli- 
tudes, 

And  trod  the  galleries  of  the  breath- 
less mine. 

For  him  no  fingering  of  the  love-strung 

lyre, 

No  problem  vague,  by  torturing  school- 
men vexed ; 

He  fed  no  broken  altar's  dying  fire, 
Nor  skulked  and  scowled  behind  a 
Rabbi's  text. 

For  God's  new  truth  he  claimed  the 

kingly  robe 
That  priestly  shoulders  counted  all 

their  own, 

Unrolled  the  gospel  of  the  storied  globe 
And  led  young  Science  to  her  empty 
throne. 


While  the  round  planet   on  its   axle 

spins 
One  fruitful  year  shall  boast  its  double 

birth, 
And  show  the   cradles  of  its  mighty 

twins, 

Master  and  Servant  of  the  sons  of 
earth. 


Which  wears  the  garland  that  shall  never 

fade, 
Sweet  with  fair  memories  that  can 

never  die  ? 
Ask  not  the  marbles  where  their  bones 

are  laid, 

But  bow  thine  ear  to  hear  thy  brothers' 
cry  :  — 

"  Tear  up  the  despot's  laurels  by  the 

root, 
Like  mandrakes,   shrieking  as  they 

quit  the  soil ! 
Feed  us  no  more  upon   the  blood-red 

fruit 

That  sucks  its  crimson  from  the  heart 
of  Toil! 

"  We  claim  the  food  that  fixed  our  mor« 

tal  fate,  — 
Bend  to  our  reach  the  long-forbidden 

tree ! 
The  angel  frowned  at  Eden's  eastern 

gate,  — 
Its  western  portal  is  forever  free  ! 

"  Bring  the  white  blossoms  of  the  waning 

year, 

Heap  with  full  hands,  the  peaceful  con- 
queror's shrine 

Whose  bloodless  triumphs  cost  no  suf- 
ferer's tear ! 

Hero  of  knowledge,   be  our  tribute 
thine ! " 


274 


SONGS   OF  MANY   SEASONS. 


POEM 

AT  THE  DEDICATION  OF  THE  HALLECK 
MONUMENT,   JULY  8,  1869. 

SAY  not  the  Poet  dies  ! 
Though,  in  the  dust  he  lies, 
He  cannot  forfeit  his  melodious  breath, 

Unsphered  by  envious  death  ! 
Life  drops  the  voiceless  myriads  from 

its  roll ; 

Their  fate  he  cannot  share, 
Who,  in  the  enchanted  air 
Sweet  with  the  lingering  strains  that 

Echo  stole, 

Has  left  his  dearer  self,  the  music  of  his 
soul ! 

We  o'er  his  turf  may  raise 
Our  notes  of  feeble  praise, 
And  carve  with  pious  care  for  after 

eyes 

The  stone  with  "  Here  he  lies  "  ; 
He  for  himself  has  built  a  nobler 

shrine, 

Whose  walls  of  stately  rhyme 
Roll  back  the  tides  of  time, 
While  o'er  their  gates  the  gleaming 

tablets  shine 

That  wear  his  name  inwrought  with 
many  a  golden  line  ! 

Call  not  our  Poet  dead, 
Though  on  his  turf  we  tread  ! 
Green  is  the  wreath  their  brows  so 

long  have  worn,  — 
The  minstrels  of  the  morn, 
Who,  while  the  Orient  burned  with  new- 
born flame, 

Caught  that  celestial  fire 
And  struck  a  Nation's  lyre  ! 
These  taught  the  western  winds  the 

poet's  name ; 

Theirs  the  first  opening  buds,  the  maiden 
flowers  of  fame ! 


Count  not  our  Poet  dead  ! 
The  stars  shall  watch  his  bed, 
The  rose  of  June  its  fragrant  life  renew 

His  blushing  mound  to  strew, 
And  all  the  tuneful  throats  of  summer 

swell 

With  trills  as  crystal-clear 
As  when  he  wooed  the  ear 
Of  the  young  muse  that  haunts  each 

wooded  dell, 

With  songs  of  that  "rough  land"  he 
loved  so  long  and  well ! 

He  sleeps  ;  he  cannot  die  ! 
As  evening's  long-drawn  sigh, 
Lifting  the  rose-leaves  on  his  peaceful 

mound, 

Spreads  all  their  sweets  around, 
So,  laden  with  his  song,  the  breezes 

blow 

From  where  the  rustling  sedge 
Frets  our  rude  ocean's  edge 
To  the  smooth  sea  beyond  the  peaks 

of  snow. 

His  soul  the  air  enshrines  and  leaves  but 
dust  below ! 


HYMN 

FOR  THE  CELEBRATION  AT  THE  LAY- 
ING OF  THE  CORNER-STONE  OF  HAR- 
VARD MEMORIAL  HALL,  CAMBRIDGE, 
OCTOBER  6,  1870. 

NOT  with  the  anguish  of  hearts  that  are 

breaking 
Come  we  as  mourners  to  weep  for  our 

dead  ; 
Grief  in  our  breasts  has  grown  weary  of 

aching, 

Green  is  the  turf  where  our  tears  we 
have  shed. 

While  o'er  their  marbles  the  mosses  are 
creeping, 


MEMORIAL  VERSES. 


275 


Stealing  each  name  and  its  legend 

away, 
Give  their    proud   story  to   Memory's 

keeping, 

Shrined  in  the  temple  we  hallow  to- 
day. 

Hushed  are  their  battle-fields,   ended 

their  marches, 
Deaf  are  their  ears  to  the  dram-beat 

of  morn,  — 
Rise  from  the  sod,  ye  fair  columns  and 

arches  ! 

Tell  their  bright  deeds  to  the  ages  un- 
born ! 

Emblem  and  legend  may  fade  from  the 

portal, 
Keystone  may  crumble  and  pillar  may 

fall; 
They  were  the  builders  whose  work  is 

immortal, 

Crowned  with  the  dome  that  is  over 
us  all ! 


HYMN 

FOR     THE    DEDICATION    OF     MEMORIAL 
HALL  AT   CAMBRIDGE,    JUNE  23,  1874. 

WHERE,  girt  around  by  savage  foes, 
Our  nurturing  Mother's  shelter  rose, 
Behold,  the  lofty  temple  stands, 
Eeared  by  her  children's  grateful  hands  ! 

Firm  are  the  pillars  that  defy 
The  volleyed  thunders  of  the  sky  ; 
Sweet  are  the    summer  wreaths    that 

twine 
With    bud    and    flower    our   martyrs' 

shrine. 

The  hues  their  tattered  colors  bore 
Fall  mingling  on  the  sunlit  floor 


Till  evening  spreads  her  spangled  pall, 
And  wraps  in  shade  the  storied  hall. 

Firm    were    their   hearts    in    danger's 

hour, 
Sweet  was  their   manhood's    morning 

flower, 
Their  hopes  with  rainbow  hues  were 

bright,  — 
How  swiftly  winged  the  sudden  night ! 

0  Mother  !  on  thy  marble  page 
Thy  children  read,  from  age  to  age, 
The  mighty  word  that  upward  leads 
Through  noble  thought  to  nobler  deeds. 

TRUTH,  heaven-born  TRUTH,  their  fear- 
less guide, 
Thy    saints    have    lived,    thy    heroes 

died; 

Our  love  has  reared  their  earthly  shrine, 
Their  glory  be  forever  thine  ! 


HYMN 

AT  THE  FUNERAL  SERVICES  OF  CHARLES 
SUMNER,   APRIL  29,  1874. 

SUNG  BY  MALE  VOICES  TO  A  NATIONAL  AIK  OF 
HOLLAND. 

ONCE  more,  ye  sacred  towers, 

Your  solemn  dirges  sound  ; 
Strew,  loving  hands,  the  April  flowers, 

Once  more  to  deck  his  mound. 

A  nation  mourns  its  dead, 

Its  sorrowing  voices  one, 
As  Israel's  monarch  bowed  his  head 

And  cried,  "  My  son  !  My  son  ! " 

Why  mourn  for  him  ?  —  For  him 
The  welcome  angel  came 
Ere  yet  his  eye  with  age  was  dim 
Or  bent  his  stately  frame  : 


276 


SONGS  OF  MANY   SEASONS. 


His  weapon  still  was  bright, 
His  shield  was  lifted  high 
To  slay  the  wrong,  to  save  the  right,  — 
What  happier  hour  to  die  ? 

Thou  orderest  all  things  well ; 
Thy  servant's  work  was  done  ; 


He  lived  to  hear  Oppression's  knell, 
The  shouts  for  Freedom  won. 
Hark  !  from  the  opening  skies 
The  anthem's  echoing  swell,  — 

"0    mourning    Land,   lift    up    thine 

eyes ! 
God  reigneth.     All  is  well  1 " 


RHYMES  OF   AN   HOUE. 


277 


RHYMES    OF    AN    HOUR. 


ADDRESS 

FOR  THE  OPENING  OF  THE  FIFTH  AVE- 
NUE THEATRE,  NEW  YOKE,  DECEM- 
BER 3,  1873. 

HANG  out  our  banners  on  the  stately 
tower  ! 

It  dawns  at  last  — the  long-expected 
hour  ! 

The  steep  is  climbed,  the  star-lit  sum- 
mit won, 

The  builder's  task,  the  artist's  labor 
done  ; 

Before  the  finished  work  the  herald 
stands, 

And  asks  the  verdict  of  your  lips  and 
hands  ! 

Shall  rosy  daybreak  make  us  all  for- 
get 

The  golden  sun  that  yester-evening 
set? 

Fair  was  the  fabric  doomed  to  pass 
away 

Ere  the  last  headaches  born  of  New 

Year's  Day ; 

.  With  blasting  breath  the  fierce  destroyer 
came 

And  wrapped  the  victim  in  his  robes  of 
flame  ; 

The  pictured  sky  with  redder  morning 
blushed, 

With  scorching  streams  the  naiad's  foun- 
tain gushed, 

With  kindling  mountains  glowed  the 
funeral  pyre, 


Forests  ablaze  and  rivers  all  on  fire,  — 
The  scenes  dissolved,  the  shrivelling  cur- 
tain fell,  — 

Art  spread  her  wings  and  sighed  a  long 
farewell ! 

Mourn  o'er  the  Player's  melancholy 

plight,  — 
Falstaff     in     tears,     Othello     deadly 

white, — 
Poor  Romeo  reckoning  what  his  doublet 

cost, 
And  Juliet  whimpering  for  her  dresses 

lost,  — 
Their  wardrobes  burned,  their  salaries 

all  undrawn, 
Their  cues  cut  short,  their  occupation 

gone  ! 

"  Lie  there  in  dust,"  the  red- winged 

demon  cried, 
""Wreck  of  the  lordly  city's  hope  and 

pride  ! " 
Silent  they  stand,  and  stare  with  vacant 

gaze,  * 

While  o'er  the  embers  leaps  the  fitful 

blaze  ; 
"When,  lo  !  a  hand,  before  the  startled 

train, 
Writes  in   the  ashes,    "  It    shall   rise 

again,  — 

Rise  and  confront  its  elemental  foes  ! " — 
The   word  was  spoken,  and  the  walls 

arose, 
And  ere  the  seasons  round  their  brief 

career 


2.78 


SONGS   OF  MANY   SEASONS. 


The  new-born  temple  waits  the  unborn 
year. 

Ours  was  the  toil  of  many  a  weary 

day 
Your  smiles,  your  plaudits,   only  can 

repay; 
We  are  the  monarchs  of  the  painted 

scenes, 
You,   you  alone  the  real   Kings    and 

Queens ! 
Lords  of  the  little  kingdom  where  we 

meet, 
We  lay  our  gilded  sceptres  at   your 

feet, 
Place  in  your  grasp  our  portal's  silvered 

keys 
With  one  brief  utterance —  We  have  tried 

to  please. 

Tell  us,  ye  Sovereigns  of  the  new  do- 
main, 
Are  you  content  —  or  have  we  toiled  in 

vain  ? 

With  no  irreverent  glances  look 
around 

The  realm  you  rule,  for  this  is  haunted 
ground ! 

Here  stalks  the  Sorcerer,  here  the  Fairy 
v  trips, 

Here  limps  the  Witch  with  malice- 
working  lips, 

The  Graces  here  their  snowy  arms  en- 
twine, 

Here  dwell  the  fairest  sisters  of  the 
Nine,  — 

She  who,  with  jocund  voice  and  twink- 
ling eye, 

Laughs  at  the  brood  of  follies  as  they 
fly; 

She  of  the  dagger  and  the  deadly 
bowl, 

Whose  charming  horrors  thrill  the  trem- 
bling soul  ; 

She  who,  a  truant  from  celestial  spheres, 


In  mortal  semblance  now  and  then  ap- 
pears, 

Stealing  the  fairest  earthly  shape  she 
can  — 

Sontag  or  Nilsson,  Lind  or  Malibran  ; 

With  these  the  spangled  houri  of  the 
dance,  — 

What  shaft  so  dangerous  as  her  melting 
glance, 

As  poised  in  air  she  spurns  the  earth 
below, 

And  points  aloft  her  heavenly-minded 
toe! 

What  were  our  life,  with  all  its  rents 

and  seams, 
Stripped  of  its  purple  robes,  our  waking 

dreams  ? 
The  poet's  song,  the  bright  romancer's 

page, 
The  tinselled  shows  that  cheat  us  on 

the  stage 

Lead  all  our  fancies  captive  at  their  will ; 
Three  years  or  threescore,  we  are  chil- 
dren still. 

The  little  listener  on  his  father's  knee, 
With  wandering  Sindbad  ploughs  the 

stormy  sea, 
With  Gotham's  sages  hears  the  billows 

roll    v 

(Illustrious  trio  of  the  venturous  bowl, 
Too  early  shipwrecked,  for  they  died  too 

soon 
To  see  their  offspring  launch  the  great 

balloon) ; 

Tracks  the  dark  brigand  to  his  moun- 
tain lair, 

Slays  the  grim  giant,  saves  the  lady  fair, 
Fights  all  his  country's  battles  o'er  again 
From  Bunker's  blazing  height  to 

Lundy's  lane; 
Floats  with  the   mighty  Captains    as 

they  sailed 
Before  whose  flag  the  naming  red-cross 

paled, 


RHYMES   OE  AN   HOUR. 


279 


And  claims  the  oft-told  story  of  the 

scars 
Scarce  yet  grown  white,  that  saved  the 

stripes  and  stars  ! 

Children  of  later  growth,  we  love  the 

PLAY, 

We  love  its  heroes,  be  they  grave  or  gay, 
From  squeaking,  peppery,  devil-defying 

Punch 

To  roaring    Richard  with  his    camel- 
hunch  ; 
Adore    its    heroines,    those    immortal 

dames, 
Time's    only    rivals,    whom    he    never 

tames, 
Whose  youth,  unchanging,  lives  while 

thrones  decay 
(Age  spares  the  Pyramids  —  and  Deja- 

zet); 
The  saucy-aproned,  razor-tongued  sou- 

brette, 
The  blond-haired  beauty  with  the  eyes 

of  jet, 
The  gorgeous  Beings  whom  the  viewless 

wires 
Lift  to  the  skies  in  strontian-crimsoned 

fires, 
And  all  the  wealth   of  splendor  that 

awaits 
The  throng  that  enters  those  Elysian 


See  where  the  hurrying  crowd  impa- 
tient pours, 

With  noise  of  trampling  feet  and  flap- 
ping doors, 

Streams  to  the  numbered  seat  each 
pasteboard  fits 

And  smooths  its  caudal  plumage  as  it 
sits  ; 

Waits  while  the  slow  musicians  saunter 
in, 

Till  the  bald  leader  taps  his  violin  ; 

Till  the  old  overture  we  know  so  well, 


Zampa  or  Magic  Flute  or  William  Tell, 

Has  done  its  worst  —  then  hark!  the 
tinkling  bell ! 

The  crash  is  o'er  —  the  crinkling  cur- 
tain furled, 

And  lo!  the  glories  of  that  brighjter 
world ! 

Behold  the  offspring  of  the  Thespian 

cart, 
This  full-grown  temple  of  the  magic 

art, 

Where  all  the  conjurors  of  illusion  meet; 
And  please  us  all  the  more,  the  mtore 

they  cheat. 
These  are  the  wizards  and  the  witches 

too 

Who  win  their  honest  bread  by  cheat- 
ing you 
With  cheeks  that  drown  in  artificial 

tears 
And  lying  skull-caps  white  with  seventy 

years, 
Sweet-tempered    matrons   changed    to 

scolding  Kates, 
Maids  mild  as  moonbeams  crazed  with 


Kind,  simple  souls  that  stab  and  slash 

and  slay 
And  stick  at  nothing,  if  it's  in  the 

play! 

Would  all  the  world  told  half  as 
harmless  lies! 

Would  all  its  real  fools  were  half  as  wise 

As  he  who  blinks  through  dull  Dun- 
dreary's eyes! 

Would  all  the  unhanged  bandits  of  the 
age 

Were  like  the  peaceful  ruffians  of  the 
stage! 

Would  all  the  cankers  wasting  town  and 
state, 

The  mob  of  rascals,  little  thieves  and 
great, 


280 


SONGS   OF   MANY   SEASONS. 


Dealers  in  watered  milk  and  watered 

stocks, 
Who  lead  us  lambs  to  pasture  on  the 

rocks,  — 
Shepherds  —  Jack  Sheppards  —  of  their 

city  flocks  — 
The  rings  of  rogues  that  rob  the  luckless 

town, 

Those  evil  angels  creeping  up  and  down 
The    Jacob's    ladder    of    the    treasury 

stairs,  — 
Not  stage,  but  real  Turpins  and  Ma- 

caires,  — 
Could  doff,  like  us,  their  knavery  with 

their  clothes, 
And  find  it  easy  as  forgetting  oaths  ! 

Welcome,  thrice  welcome  to  our  vir- 
gin dome, 

The  Muses'  shrine,  the  Drama's  new- 
found home! 

Here  shall  the  Statesman  rest  his  weary 
brain, 

The  worn-out  Artist  find  his  wits  again  ; 

Here  Trade  forget  his  ledger  and  his 
cares, 

And  sweet  communion  mingle  Bulls 
and  Bears ; 

Here  shall  the  youthful  Lover,  nestling 
near 

The  shrinking  maiden,  her  he  holds  most 
dear, 

Gaze  on  the  mimic  moonlight  as  it  falls 

On  painted  groves,  on  sliding  canvas 
walls, 

And  sigh,  "  My  angel !  What  a  life  of 
bliss 

We  two  could  live  in  such  a  world  as 
this ! " 

Here  shall  the  tumid  pedants  of  the 
schools, 

The  gilded  boors,  the  labor-scorning 
fools, 

The  grass-green  rustic  and  the  smoke- 
dried  "it, 


Feel  each  in  turn  the  stinging  lash  of 

wit, 

And  as  it  tingles  on  some  tender  part 
Each  find  a  balsam  in  his  neighbor's 

smart ; 

So  every  folly  prove  a  fresh  delight 
As  in  the  pictures  of  our  play  to-night. 

Farewell!     The    Players    wait    the 

Prompter's  call ; 

Friends,    lovers,    listeners!     Welcome 
one  and  all! 


RIP  VAN  WINKLE,  M.  D. 

AN  AFTER-DINNER  PRESCRIPTION  TAKEN 
BY  THE  MASSACHUSETTS  MEDICAL 
SOCIETY,  AT  THEIB  MEETING  HELD 
MAY  25,  1870. 

CANTO  FIRST. 

OLD  Rip  Van  Winkle  had  a  grandson, 

Rip, 

Of  the  paternal  block  a  genuine  chip ; 
A  lazy,  sleepy,  curious  kind  of  chap; 
He,  like  his  grandsire,  took  a  mighty 

nap, 

Whereof  the  story  I  propose  to  tell 
In  two  brief  cantos,  if  you  listen  well. 

The  times  were  hard  when  Rip  to  man- 
hood grew ; 
They  always  will  be  when  there  's  work 

to  do ; 
He  tried  at  farming  —  found  it  rather 

slow  — 
And  then  at  teaching  —  what  he  did  n't 

know ; 
Then  took  to  hanging  round  the  tavern 

bars, 

To  frequent  toddies  and  long-nine  cigars, 
Till  Dame  Van  Winkle,  out  of  patience, 

vexed 
With  preaching   homilies,   having  foi 

their  text 


RHYMES   OF  AN   HOUR. 


281 


A  mop,  a  broomstick  —  aught  that  might 

avail 

To  point  a  moral  or  adorn  a  tale, 
Exclaimed,   "  I   have   it !     Now  then, 

Mr.  V.  ! 
He's  good  for  something  —  make  him 

an  M.  D. !  " 

The  die  was  cast ;  the  youngster  was 

content ; 
They  packed  his  shirts  and  stockings, 

and  he  went. 
How  hard  he  studied  it  were  vain  to 

tell; 
He  drowsed  through  Wistar,  nodded  over 

Bell, 
Slept  sound  with  Cooper,  snored  aloud 

on  Good ; 

Heard  heaps  of  lectures  —  doubtless  un- 
derstood — 

A  constant  listener,  for  he  did  not  fail 
To  carve  his  name  on  every  bench  and 

rail. 

Months  grew  to  years ;  at  last  he  counted 

three, 

And  Rip  Van  Winkle  found  himself  M.  D. 
Illustrious  title  !  in  a  gilded  frame 
He  set  the  sheepskin  with  his   Latin 

name, 
RIPUM   VAN  WINKLUM,   QUEM  we  — 

SCIMUS  —  know 

IDONEUM  ESSE  —  to  do  so  and  so  ; 
He  hired  an  office ;  soon  its  walls  dis- 
played 

His  new  diploma  and  his  stock  in  trade, 
A  mighty  arsenal  to  subdue  disease, 
Of  various  names,  whereof  I  mention 

these  : 
Lancets  and  bougies,  great  and  little 

squirt, 
Rhubarb  and  Senna,  Snakeroot,  Thor- 

oughwort, 
Ant.   Tart.,  Vin.   Colch.,  Pil.  Cochiae, 

and  Black  Drop, 


Tinctures  of  Opium,  Gentian,  Henbane, 

Hop, 

Pulv.  Ipecacuanhas,  which  for  lack 
Of  breath  to  utter  men  call  Ipecac, 
Camphor  and  Kino,  Turpentine,  Tolu, 
Cubebs,     "Copeevy,"    Vitriol  —  white 

and  blue, 
Fennel  and  Flaxseed,  Slippery  Elm  and 

Squill, 
And  roots  of  Sassafras,  and  "Sassaf- 

rill," 
Brandy  —  for  colics  —  Pinkroot,  death 

on  worms  — 

Valerian,  calmer  of  hysteric  squirms, 
Musk,  Assafcetida,  the  resinous  gum 
Named  from  its  odor  —  well,  it  does 

smell  some  — 
Jakp,  that  works  not  wisely,  but  too 

well, 
Ten  pounds  of  Bark  and  six  of  Calomel. 

For  outward  griefs  he  had  an  ample 
store, 

Some  twenty  jars  and  gallipots,  or  more ; 

Ceratum  simplex  —  housewives  oft  com- 
pile 

The  same  at  home,  and  call  it  "wax 
and  ile  "  ; 

Uhguentum  Besinosum  —  change  its 
name, 

The  "drawing  salve"  of  many  an  an- 
cient dame ; 

Argenti  Nitras,  also  Spanish  flies, 

Whose  virtue  makes  the  water-bladders 
rise  — 

(Some  say  that  spread  upon  a  toper's 
skin 

They  draw  no  water,  only  rum  or  gin)  — 

Leeches,  sweet  vermin !  don't  they 
charm  the  sick  ? 

And  Sticking-plaster  —  how  it  hates  to 
stick  ! 

Emplastrum  Ferri  —  ditto  Pitis,  Pitch ; 

Washes  and  Powders,  Brimstone  for  tha 
which, 


282 


SONGS   OF  MANY  SEASONS. 


Scabies  or  Psora,  is  thy  chosen  nam« 
Since  Hahnemann's  goose-quill  scratched 

thee  into  fame, 

Proved  thee  the  source  of  every  name- 
less ill, 

Whose  sole  specific  is  a  moonshine  pill, 
Till  saucy  Science,  with  a  quiet  grin, 
Held  up    the  Acarus,    crawling  on  a 
pin? 

—  Mountains   have  labored   and  have 

brought  forth  mice  : 

The  Dutchman's  theory  hatched  a  brood 
of — twice 

I  've  wellnigh  said  them — words  unfit- 
ting quite 

For  these  fair  precincts  and  for  ears 
polite. 

The  surest  foot  may  chance  at  last  to 

slip, 
And  so  at  length  it  proved  with  Doctor 

Rip. 

One  full-sized  bottle  stood  upon  the  shelf 
Which  held  the  medicine  that  he  took 

himself ; 

Whate'er  the  reason,  it  must  be  confessed 
He  filled  that  bottle  oftener  than  the 

rest; 
What  drug  it  held  I  don't  presume  to 

know  — 
The  gilded  label  said  "  Elixir  Pro." 

One  day  the  Doctor  found  the  bottle 

full, 

And,  being  thirsty,  took  a  vigorous  pull, 
Put  back  the   "Elixir"  where  'twas 

always  found, 
And  had  old  Dobbin  saddled  and  brought 

round. 

—  You  know  those  old-time  rhubarb- 

colored  nags 
That  carried  Doctors  and  their  saddle- 


Sagacious  beasts  !  they  stopped  at  every 
place 


Where  blinds  were  shut  —  knew  ever} 

patient's  case  — 
Looked  up  and  thought  —  the  baby  's 

in  a  fit  — 
That  won't  last  long  —  he  '11  soon  be 

through  with  it ; 
But  shook  their  heads  before  the  knock- 

ered  door 
Where  some  old  lady  told  the  story 

o'er 
Whose  endless   stream    of   tribulation 

flows 
For  gastric  griefs  and  peristaltic  woes. 

What  jack-o'-lantern  led 'him  from 

his  way, 
And  where  it  led  him,  it  were  hard  to 

say; 
Enough  that  wandering  many  a  weary 

mile 
Through  paths  the  mountain  sheep  trod 

single  file, 
O'ercome  by  feelings  such  as  patients 

know 

Who  dose  too  freely  with  "  Elixir  Pro.," 
He  tumbl  —  dismounted,  slightly  in  a 

heap, 
And  lay,  promiscuous,  lapped  in  balmy 

sleep. 

Night   followed   night,   and  day  suc- 
ceeded day, 
But  snoring  still  the  slumbering  Doctor 

lay. 
Poor  Dobbin,   starving,  thought  upon 

his  stall, 
And  straggled  homeward,   saddle-bags 

and  all. 

The  village  people  hunted  all  around, 
But  Eip  was  missing,  —  never  could  be 

found. 
"  Drownded,"  they  guessed  ;  —  for  more 

than  half  a  year 
The  pouts  and  eels  did  taste  uncommon 

queer ; 


RHYMES   OF  AN   HOUR. 


283 


Some  said  of  apple-brandy  —  other  some 
Found  a  strong  flavor  of  New  England 


—  Why  can't  a  fellow  hear  the  fine 

things  said 

About  a  fellow  when  a  fellow  's  dead  ? 

The  best  of  doctors  —  so  the  press  de- 
clared — 

A  public  blessing  while  his  life  was 
spared, 

True  to  his  country,  bounteous  to  the 
poor, 

In  all  things  temperate,  sober,  just,  and 
pure ; 

The  best  of  husbands  !  echoed  Mrs.  Van, 

And  set  her  cap  to  catch  another  man. 

—  So  ends  this  Canto  —  if  it's  quan- 

tum suff"., 
We  '11  just  stop  here  and  say  we  've  had 

enough, 
And  leave  poor  Rip  to  sleep  for  thirty 

years ; 

I  grind  the  organ  —  if  you  lend  your  ears 
To  hear  my  second  Canto,  after  that 
We  '11  send  around  the  monkey  with 

the  hat. 


CANTO  SECOND. 

So  thirty  years  had  past  —  but  not  a 

word 

In  all  that  time  of  Rip  was  ever  heard ; 
The  world  wagged  on  —  it  never  does 

go  back  — 
The  widow  Van  was  now  the  widow 

Mac  — 
France  was  an  Empire  —  Andrew  J.  was 

dead, 
And  Abraham  L.  was  reigning  in  his 

stead. 
Four  murderous  years  had  passed  in 

savage  strife, 
Vet  still  the  rebel  held  his  bloody  knife. 


—  At  last  one  morning  —  who  forgets 
the  day 

When  the  black  cloud  of  war  dissolved 
away  ? 

The  joyous  tidings  spread  o'er  land  and 
sea, 

Rebellion  done  for !  Grant  has  cap- 
tured Lee  ! 

Up  every  flagstaff  sprang  the  Stars  and 
Stripes  — 

Out  rushed  the  Extras  wild  with  mam- 
moth types  — 

Down  went  the  laborer's  hod,  the  school- 
boy's book  — 

"Hooraw!"  he  cried,  —  "the  rebel 
army 's  took  ! " 

Ah  !  what  a  time !  the  folks  all  mad 
with  joy : 

Each  fond,  pale  mother  thinking  of  her 
boy; 

Old  gray-haired  fathers  meeting  —  Have 


—  you- 


•  heard  ? 


And  then  a  choke  —  and  not  another 

word  ; 
Sisters  all  smiling  —  maidens,  not  less 

dear, 
In  trembling  poise  between  a  smile  and 

tear ; 
Poor  Bridget  thinking  how  she  '11  stuff 

the  plums 
In  that  big  cake  for  Johnny  when  he 

comes ; 

Cripples  afoot ;  rheumatics  on  the  jump, 
Old  girls  so  loving  they  could  hug  the 

pump; 
Guns  going  bang !  from  every  fort  and 

ship; 

They  banged  so  loud  at  last  they  wak- 
ened Rip. 

I  spare  the  picture,  how  a  man  ap- 
pears 

Who  's  been  asleep  a  score  or  two  of 
years ; 

You  all  have  seen  it  to  perfection  done 


284 


SONGS  OF  MANY  SEASONS. 


By  Joe  Van  Wink  —  I  mean  Rip  Jeffer- 
son. 

Well,  so  it  was ;  old  Eip  at  last  came 
back, 

Claimed  his  old  wife  —  the  present 
widow  Mac  — 

Had  his  old  sign  regilded,  and  began 

To  practise  physic  on  the  same  old  plan. 

Some  weeks  went  by  —  it  was  not 

long  to  wait  — 
And  "please  to  call "  grew  frequent  on 

the  slate. 
He  had,  in  fact,  an  ancient,  mildewed 

air, 
A  long  gray  beard,  a  plenteous  lack  of 

hair  — 

The  musty  look  that  always  recommends 
Your   good   old  Doctor  to   his   ailing 

friends. 

—  Talk  of  your  science  !  after  all  is  said 
There 's  nothing  like  a  bare  and  shiny 

head  ; 
Age  lends  the  graces  that  are  sure  to 

please ; 
Folks  want  their  Doctors  mouldy,  like 

their  cheese. 

So    Rip  began   to    look  at  people's 

tongues 
And    thump  their   briskets  (called  it 

"sound  their  lungs"), 
Brushed  up  his  knowledge  smartly  as  he 

could, 

Read  in  old  Cullen  and  in  Doctor  Good. 
The  town  was  healthy  ;  for  a  month  or 

two 
He  gave  the  sexton  little  work  to  do. 

About  the  time  when  dog-day  heats 

begin, 

The  summer's  usual  maladies  set  in  ; 
With  autumn  evenings  dysentery  came, 
And  dusky  typhoid  lit  his  smouldering 

Same ; 


The  blacksmith  ailed  —  the  carpenter 
was  down, 

And  half  the  children  sickened  in  the 
town. 

The  sexton's  face  grew  shorter  than  be- 
fore— 

The  sexton's  wife  a  brand-new  bonnet 
wore  — 

Things  looked  quite  serious  —  Death  had 
got  a  grip 

On  old  and  young,  in  spite  of  Doctor 
Rip. 

And  now  the  Squire  was  taken  with 

a  chill  — 
Wife  gave  "  hot-drops  "  —  at  night  an 

Indian  pill ; 

Next  morning,  feverish  —  bedtime,  get- 
ting worse  — 
Out  of  his  head  —  began  to  rave  and 

curse ; 
The  Doctor  sent  for  —  double  quick  he 

came  : 
Ant.  Tart.  gran,  duo,  and  repeat  the 

same 
If  no  et  cetera.     Third  day  —  nothing 

new  ; 
Percussed  his  thorax  till  't  was  black 

and  blue  — 
Lung-fever  threatening  —  something  of 

the  sort  — 
Out  with  the  lancet  —  let  him  bleed  — 

a  quart — 
Ten  leeches  next  —  then  blisters  to  his 

side  ; 
Ten  grains  of  calomel ;  just  then  he 

died. 


The  Deacon  next  required  the  Doc- 
tor's care  — 
Took  cold  by  sitting  in  a  draught  of 

air  — 

Pains  in  the  back,  but  what  the  matter  is 
Not  quite  so  clear,  —  wife  calls  it  "  rheu- 
matiz." 


KHYMES   OF  AN  HOUR. 


285 


Hubs  back   with  flannel  —  gives    him 

something  hot  — 
"Ah!  "says   the   Deacon,  "that  goes 

nigh  the  spot." 
Next  day  a  rigor — "Run,   my  little 

man, 
And  say  the  Deacon  sends  for  Doctor 

Van." 

The  Doctor  came  —  percussion  as  before, 
Thumping  and  banging  till  his  ribs  were 

sore  — 
"  Right  side  the  flattest "  —  then  more 

vigorous  raps  — 
"  Fever  —  that  's    certain  —  pleurisy, 

perhaps. 
A  quart  of  blood  will  ease  the  pain,  no 

doubt, 

Ten  leeches  next  will  help  to  suck  it  out, 
Then  clap  a  blister  on  the  painful  part  — 
But  first  two  grains  of  Antimonium  Tart. 
Last,  with  a  dose  of  cleansing  calomel 
Unload  the  portal  system  —  (that  sounds 

well !) " 

But  when  the  selfsame  remedies  were 

tried, 
As  all  the  village  knew,  the  Squire  had 

died; 
The  neighbors  hinted  —  this  will  never 

do, 
He  's  killed  the  Squire  —  he  '11  kill  the 

Deacon  too." 

—  Now  when  a  doctor's  patients  are  per- 
plexed, 

A  coiisultation  comes  in  order  next  — 

You  know  what  that  is  ?  In  a  certain 
place 

Meet  certain  doctors  to  discuss  a  case 

And  other  matters,  such  as  weather, 
crops, 

Potatoes,  pumpkins,  lager-beer,  and 
hops. 

For  what 's  the  use  ?  —  there 's  little  to 
be  said, 


Nine  times  in  ten  your  man 's  as  good  as 

dead; 

At  best  a  talk  (the  secret  to  disclose) 
Where  three  men  guess  and  sometimes 

one  man  knows. 

The  counsel  summoned  came  without 

delay  — 
Young  Doctor  Green  and  shrewd  old 

Doctor  Gray  — 
They  heard  the  story —  "  Bleed  !  "  says 

Doctor  Green, 
"  That  's  downright  murder  !   cut  his 

throat,  you  mean  ! 
Leeches  !  the  reptiles  !    Why,  for  pity's 

sake, 

Not  try  an  adder  or  a  rattlesnake  ? 
Blisters !  Why  bless  you,  they  're  against 

the  law  — 
It  'a  rank  assault  and  battery  if  they 

draw  ! 

Tartrate  of  Antimony  !  shade  of  Luke, 
Stomachs  turn  pale  at  thought  of  such 

rebuke  ! 
The  portal  system  !     What  's  the  man 

about? 
Unload  your  nonsense !  Calomel's  played 

out! 
You  've  been  asleep  —  you  'd  better  sleep 

away 
Till  some  one  calls  you." 

"  Stop  ! "  says  Doctor  Gray  — 

"The  story  is  you  slept  for  thirty 
years  ; 

With  brother  Green,  I  own  that  it  ap- 
pears 

You  must  have  slumbered  most  amazing 
sound ; 

But  sleep  once  more  till  thirty  years 
come  round, 

You'll  find  the  lancet  in  its  honored 
place, 

Leeches  and  blisters  rescued  from  dis- 
grace, 


286 


SONGS   OF  MANY   SEASONS. 


Your  drugs  redeemed  from  fashion's  pass- 
ing scorn, 

And  counted  safe  to  give  to  babes  un- 
born." 

Poor  sleepy  Rip,  M.  M.  S.  S.,  M.  D., 

A  puzzled,  serious,  saddened  man  was  he ; 

Home  from  the  Deacon's  house  he  plod- 
ded slow 

And  tilled  one  bumper  of  "  Elixir  Pro." 

"Good  by,"  he  faltered,  "Mrs.  Van, 
my  dear! 

I  'm  going  to  sleep,  but  wake  me  once  a 
year; 

I  don't  like  bleaching  in  the  frost  and 
dew, 

I  '11  take  the  barn,  if  all  the  same  to  you. 

Just  once  a  year  —  remember  !  no  mis- 
take ! 

Cry,  '  Rip  Van  Winkle  !  time  for  you  to 
wake ! ' 

Watch  for  the  week  in  May  when  lay- 
locks  blow, 

For  then  the  Doctors  meet,  and  I  must 
go." 

Just  once  a  year  the  Doctor's  worthy 

dame 

Goes  to  the  barn  and  shouts  her  hus- 
band's name, 
"  Come,  Rip  Van  Winkle  ! "  (giving  him 

a  shake) 
"  Rip  !  Rip  Van  Winkle  !  time  for  you 

to  wake  ! 
Laylocks  in  blossom  !  't  is  the  month  of 

May  — 

The  Doctors'  meeting  is  this  blessed  day, 
And  come  what  will,  you  know  I  heard 

you  swear 
You  'd  never  miss  it,  but  be  always 

there ! " 


And  so  it  is,  as  every  year  comes  round 
Old   Rip  Van  Winkle  here  is  always 
found. 


You  '11  quickly  know  him  by  his  mil- 
dewed air, 

The  hayseed  sprinkled  through  his  scanty 
hair, 

The  lichens  growing  on  his  rusty  suit  — 

I  've  seen  a  toadstool  sprouting  on  his 
boot  — 

—  Who  says  I  lie  ?  Does  any  man  pre- 
sume ?  — 

Toadstool?  No  matter  —  call  it  a  mush- 
room. 

Where  is  his  seat  ?  He  moves  it  every 
year; 

But  look,  you  '11  find  him  —  he  is  always 
here  — 

Perhaps  you  '11  track  him  by  a  whiff  you 
know  — 

A  certain  flavor  of  "  Elixir  Pro." 

Now,  then,  I  give  you  —  as  you  seem 

to  think 
We  can  give  toasts  without  a  drop  to 

drink  — 
Health  to  the  mighty  sleeper  —  long 

live  he  ! 
Our  brother  Rip,  M.  M.  S.  S.,  M.  D. ! 


CHANSON  WITHOUT  MUSIC. 

BY  THE  PROFESSOR  EMERITUS  OF  DEAD 
AND   LIVE  LANGUAGES. 

»   B   K.  —  CAMBRIDGE,  1867. 

You  bid  me  sing,  —  can  I  forget 

The  classic  ode  of  days  gone  by,  — 
How  belle  Fifine  and  jeune  Lisette 

Exclaimed,  "Anacreon,  geron  ei  "  ? 
"  Regardez  done,"  those  ladies  said,  — 

"  You  're  getting  bald  and  wrinkled 

too  : 
When  summer's  roses  all  are  shed, 

Love 's  nullum  ite,  voyez-vous  ! " 

In  vain  ce  brave  Anacreon's  cry, 
"  Of  Love  alone  my  banjo  sings  " 


EHYMES   OF  AN   HOUR. 


287 


(Erota  mounon).     "  Etiam  si,  — 
Eh  b'en  ? "  replied  the  saucy  things,  — 

"  Go  find  a  maid  whose  hair  is  gray, 
And  strike  your  lyre,  —  we  sha'  n't 
complain  ; 

But  parce  nobis,  s'il  vous  plait,  — 
Voilk  Adolphe  !    Voilk  Eugene  !  " 

Ah,  jeune  Lisette  !    Ah,  belle  Fifine  ! 

Anacreon's  lesson  all  must  learn  ; 
'0  kairos  oxus  ;  Spring  is  green, 

But  Acer  Hyems  waits  his  turn  ! 
I  hear  you  whispering  from  the  dust, 
"  Tiens,  mon  cher,  c'est  toujours  so,  — 
The  brightest  blade  grows  dim  with  rust, 

The  fairest  meadow  white  with  snow ! " 

—  You  do  not  mean  it !    Not  encore  ? 

Another  string  of  playday  rhymes  ? 
Yon  've  heard  me — nonne  est  ?  —  before, 

Multoties,  —  more  than  twenty  times ; 
Non  possum,  — vraiment,  —  pas  du  tout, 

I  cannot !     I  am  loath  to  shirk  ; 
But  who  will  listen  if  I  do, 

My   memory   makes    such   shocking 
work? 

Ginosko.     Scio.     Yes,  I  'm  told 

Some  ancients  like  my  rusty  lay, 
As  Grandpa  Noah  loved  the  old 

lied-sandstone  march  of  Jubal's  day. 
I  used  to  carol  like  the  birds, 

But  time  my  wits  has  quite  unfixed, 
Et  quoad  verba,  —  for  my  words,  — 

Ciel!  Eheu!  Whe-ew! — how  they 're 
mixed  ! 

Mehercle  !    Zeu  !     Diable  !  how 

My  thoughts  were  dressed  when  I  was 

young, 
But  tempus  fugit !  see  them  now 

Half  clad  in  rags  of  every  tongue  ! 
0  philoi,  fratres,  chers  amis  ! 

I  dare  not  court  the  youthful  Muse, 
For  fear  her  sharp  response  should  be, 

"  Papa  Anacreon,  please  excuse  !  " 


Adieu  !  I  Ve  trod  my  annual  track 

How  long  !  —  let  others   count   the 

miles,  — 
And  peddled  out  my  rhyming  pack 

To  friends  who  always  paid  in  smiles. 
So,  laissez-moi  !  some  youthful  wit 

No  doubt  has  wares  he  wants  to  show  ; 
And  I  am  asking,  "  Let  me  sit," 

Dum  ille  clamat,  "  Dos  pou  sto !  " 


FOR  THE  CENTENNIAL  DINNER 

OF  THE   PROPRIETORS  OF  BOSTON  PIER, 
OR  THE  LONG  WHARF,  APRIL  16,  1873. 

DEAR  friends,  we  are  strangers ;  we 
never  before 

Have  suspected  what  love  to  each  other 
we  bore  ; 

But  each  of  us  all  to  his  neighbor  is  dear, 

Whose  heart  has  a  throb  for  our  time- 
honored  pier. 

As  I  look  on  each  brother  proprietor's 
face, 

I  could  open  my  arms  in  a  loving  em- 
brace ; 

What  wonder  that  feelings,  undreamed 
of  so  long, 

Should  burst  all  at  once  in  a  blossom  of 
song! 

While  I  turn  my  fond  glance  on  the  mon- 
arch of  piers, 

Whose  throne  has  stood  firm  through  his 
eightscore  of  years, 

My  thought  travels  backward  and  reaches 
the  day 

When  they  drove  the  first  pile  on  the 
edge  of  the  bay. 

See  !     The  joiner,  the  shipwright,  the 

smith  from  his  forge, 
The  redcoat,  who  shoulders  his  gun  for 

King  George, 


288 


SONGS   OF   MANY   SEASONS. 


The  shopman,    the  'prentice,  the  boys 

from  the  lane, 
The  parson,  the  doctor  with  gold-headed 

cane, 

Come  trooping  down  King  Street,  where 
now  may  be  seen 

The  pulleys  and  ropes  of  a  mighty  ma- 
chine ; 

The  weight  rises  slowly  ;  it  drops  with 
a  thud  ; 

And,  lo  !  the  great  timber  sinks  deep  in 
the  mud  ! 

They  are  gone,  the  stout  craftsmen  that 
hammered  the  piles, 

And  the  square-toed  old  boys  in  the 
three-cornered  tiles ; 

The  breeches,  the  buckles,  have  faded 
from  view, 

And  the  parson's  white  wig  and  the  rib- 
bon-tied queue. 

The  redcoats  have  vanished ;  the  last 

grenadier 
Stepped  into  the  boat  from  the  end  of 

our  pier ; 
They  found  that  our  hills  were  not  easy 

to  climb, 
And  the  order  came,  "  Countermarch, 

double-quick  time ! " 

They  are  gone,  friend  and  foe,  —  an- 
chored fast  at  the  pier, 

Whence  no  vessel  brings  back  its  pale 
passengers  here  ; 

But  our  wharf,  like  a  lily,  still  floats  on 
the  flood, 

Its  breast  in  the  sunshine,  its  roots  in 
the  mud. 

Who  —  who  that  has  loved  it  so  long 

and  so  well  — 
The  flower  of  his  birthright  would  barter 

or  sell  ? 


No  :  pride  of  the  bay,  while  its  ripples 

shall  run, 
You  shall  pass,  as  an  heirloom,  from 

father  to  son  ! 

Let  me  part  with  the  acres  my  grand- 
father bought, 

With  the  bonds  that  my  uncle's  kind 
legacy  brought, 

With  my  bank-shares,  — old  "  Union," 


Stands  stiff  through  the  storms  as  the 
Eddystone  rock ; 

With  my  rights  (or  my  wrongs)  in  the 

"Erie,"  — alas  ! 
With  my  claims  on  the  mournful  and 

"Mutual  Mass."  ; 
With  my  "  Phil.  Wil.  and  Bait.,"  with 

my  "C.  B.  andQ."; 
But  I  never,  no  never,  will  sell  out  of 

you. 

We  drink  to  thy  past  and  thy  future  to- 
day, 

Strong  right  arm  of  Boston,  stretched 
out  o'er  the  bay. 

May  the  winds  waft  the  wealth  of  all 
nations  to  thee, 

And  thy  dividends  flow  like  the  waves 
of  the  sea  ! 


A  POEM  SERVED  TO  ORDER. 

'    PHI    BETA   KAPPA,    JUNE   26,  1873. 

THE  Caliph  ordered  up  his  cook, 
And,  scowling  with  a  fearful  look 
That  meant, — We  stand  no    gam- 
mon, — 

"  To-morrow,  just  at  two,"  he  said, 
"  Hassan,  our  cook,  will  lose  his  head, 
Or  serve  us  up  a  salmon." 

"Great  Sire,"  the  trembling  chef  replied, 
"  Lord  of  the  Earth  and  all  beside, 


RHYMES  OF  AN   HOUR. 


289 


Sun,  Moon,  and  Stars,  and  so  on  —  " 
(Look  in  Eothen  —  there  you  '11  find 
A  list  of  titles.     Never  mind, 

I  have  n't  time  to  go  on :) 

"Great  Sire,"  and  so  forth,   thus  he 

spoke, 
"  Your  Highness  must  intend  a  joke  ; 

It  does  n't  stand  to  reason 
For  one  to  order  salmon  brought, 
Unless  that  fish  is  sometimes  caught, 

And  also  is  in  season. 

"  Our  luck  of  late  is  shocking  bad, 
In  fact,  the  latest  catch  we  had 

(We  kept  the  matter  shady), 
But,  hauling  in  our  nets,  —  alack  ! 
We  found  no  salmon,  but  a  sack 

That  held  your  honored  Lady  !  " 

—  "  Allah  is  great  !  "  the  Caliph  said, 
"  My  poor  Zuleika,  you  are  dead, 

I  once  took  interest  in  you." 

—  "Perhaps,  my  Lord,  you'd  like  to 

know 

We  cut  the  lines  and  let  her  go." 
—  "  Allah  be  praised  !    Continue." 

—  "  It  is  n't  hard  one's  hook  to  bait, 
And,  squatting  down,  to  watch  and  wait, 

To  see  the  cork  go  under ; 
At  last  suppose  you  've  got  your  bite, 
You  twitch  away  with  all  your  might,  — 

You  've  hooked  an  eel,  by  thunder  !  " 

The  Caliph  patted  Hassan's  head  : 

"  Slave,  thou  hast  spoken  well,"  he  said, 

"And  won  thy  master's  favor. 
Yes  ;  since  what  happened  t'  other  morn 
The  salmon  of  the  Golden  Horn 

Might  have  a  doubtful  flavor. 

"  That  last  remark  about  the  eel 
Has  also  justice  that  we  feel 

Quite  to  our  satisfaction. 
To-morrow  we  dispense  with  fish, 


And,  for  the  present,  if  you  wish, 
You  '11  keep  your  bulbous  fraction." 

"Thanks  !  thanks  !"  the  grateful  chef 

replied, 
His  nutrient  feature  showing  wide 

The  gleam  of  arches  dental : 
"  To  cut  my  head  off  would  n't  pay, 
I  find  it  useful  every  day, 

As  well  as  ornamental." 


Brothers,  I  hope  you  will  not  fail 
To  see  the  moral  of  my  tale 

And  kindly  to  receive  it. 
You  know  your  anniversary  pie 
Must  have  its  crust,  though  hard  and 
dry, 

And  some  prefer  to  leave  it. 

How  oft  before  these  youths  were  born 
I  've  fished  in  Fancy's  Golden  Horn 

For  what  the  Muse  might  send  me  ! 
How  gayly  then  I  cast  the  line, 
When  all  the  morning  sky  was  mine, 

And  Hope  her  flies  would  lend  me  ! 

And  now  I  hear  our  despot's  call, 
And  come,  like  Hassan,  to  the  hall,  — 

If  there  's  a  slave,  I  am  one,  — 
My  bait  no  longer  flies,  but  worms  ! 
I  Ve  caught  —  Lord  bless  me  !  how  ho 
squirms ! 

An  eel,  and  not  a  salmon  ! 


THE  FOUNTAIN   OF  YOUTH. 

READ  AT  THE  MEETING  OF  THE  HAR- 
VARD ALUMNI  ASSOCIATION,  JUNE  25, 
1873. 

THE  fount  the  Spaniard  sought  in  vain 
Through  all  the  land  of  flowers 

Leaps  glittering  from  the  sandy  plain 
Our  classic  grove  embowers  ; 


290 


SONGS   OF   MANY   SEASONS. 


Here  youth,  unchanging,  blooms  and 
smiles, 

Here  dwells  eternal  spring, 
And  warm  from  Hope's  elysian  isles 

The  winds  their  perfume  bring. 

Here  every  leaf  is  in  the  bud, 

Each  singing  throat  in  tune, 
And  bright  o'er  evening's  silver  flood 

Shines  the  young  crescent  moon. 
What  wonder  Age  forgets  his  staff 

And  lays  his  glasses  down, 
And  gray-haired   grandsires  look  and 
laugh 

As  when  their  locks  were  brown  ! 

With  ears  grown  dull  and  eyes  grown 
dim 

They  greet  the  joyous  day 
That  calls  them  to  the  fountain's  brim 

To  wash  their  years  away. 
What  change  has  clothed  the  ancient 
sire 

In  sudden  youth  ?    For,  lo  ! 
The  Judge,  the  Doctor,  and  the  Squire 

Are  Jack  and  Bill  and  Joe  ! 

And  be  his  titles  what  they  will, 

In  spite  of  manhood's  claim 
The  graybeard  is  a  school-boy  still 

And  loves  his  school-boy  name  ; 
It  calms  the  ruler's  stormy  breast 

Whom  hurrying  care  pursues, 
And  brings  a  sense  of  peace  and  rest, 

Like  slippers  after  shoes. 

And  what  are  all  the  prizes  won 

To  youth's  enchanted  view  ? 
And  what  is  all  the  man  has  done 

To  what  the  boy  may  do  ? 
0  blessed  fount,  whose  waters  flow 

Alike  for  sire  and  son, 
That  melts  our  winter's  frost  and  snow 

And  makes  all  ages  one  ! 


I  pledge  the  sparkling  fountain's  tide, 

That  flings  its  golden  shower 
With  age  to  fill  and  youth  to  guide, 

Still  fresh  in  morning  flower  ! 
Flow  on  with  ever-widening  stream, 

In  ever-brightening  morn,  — 
Our  story's  pride,  our  future's  dream, 

The  hope  of  times  unborn  ! 


A  HYMN  OF  PEACE. 

SUNG  AT  THE  "JUBILEE,"  JUNE  15, 
1869,  TO  THE  MUSIC  OF  KELLER'S 
" AMERICAN  HYMN." 

ANGEL  of  Peace,  thou  hast  wandered 

too  long ! 

Spread  thy  white  wings  to  the  sun- 
shine of  love  ! 
Come  while  our  voices  are  blended  in 

song,  — 
Fly  to  our  ark  like  the  storm-beaten 

dove  ! 
Fly  to  our  ark  on  the  wings  of  the 

dove,  — 
Speed  o'er  the  far-sounding  billows  of 

song, 
Crowned  with  thine  olive-leaf  garland 

of  love,  — 

Angel  of  Peace,  thou  hast  waited  too 
long ! 

Brothers  we  meet,  on  this  altar  of  thine 
Mingling  the  gifts  we  have  gathered 

for  thee, 

Sweet  with  the  odors  of  myrtle  and  pine, 
Breeze  of  the  prairie  and  breath  of 

the  sea,  — 
Meadow  and  mountain  and  forest  and 

sea ! 
Sweet  is  the  fragrance  of  myrtle  and 

pine, 

Sweeter  the  incense  we  offer  to  thee, 
Brothers  once  more  round  this  altar 
of  thine ! 


KHYMES   OF  AN   HOUR. 


291 


Angels  of  Bethlehem,  answer  the  strain  ! 
Hark'!  a  new  birth-song  is  filling  the 

sky!  — 
Loud  as  the  storm-wind  that  tumbles 

the  main 

Bid    the  full  breath  of   the    organ 
reply,  — 


Let   the    loud    tempest  of  voices    re- 

Pty»  — 

Roll  its  long  surge  like  the  earth- 
shaking  main  ! 
Swell  the  vast  song  till  it  mounts  to  the 

sky  !  — 
Angels  of  Bethlehem,  echo  the  strain  I 


ADDITIONAL    POEMS. 


TO  1878. 


AT  A  MEETING  OF  FRIENDS. 

AUGUST  29,  1859. 

I  REMEMBER — why  yes  !  God  bless  me ! 

and  was  it  so  long  ago  ? 
I  fear  I  'm  growing  forgetful,  as  old  folks 

do,  you  know ; 
It  must  have  been  in  'forty  —  I  would 

say  'thirty-nine  — 
"We  talked  this  matter  over,  I  and  a  friend 

of  mine. 

He  said  "Well  now,  old  fellow,  I'm 

thinking  that  you  and  I, 
If  we  act  like  other  people,  shall  be  older 

by  and  by ; 
What  though  the  bright  blue  ocean  is 

smooth  as  a  pond  can  be, 
There  is  always  a  line  of  breakers  to 

fringe  the  broadest  sea. 

"  We  're  taking  it  mighty  easy,  but  that 

is  nothing  strange, 
For  up  to  the  age  of  thirty  we  spend  our 

years  like  change ; 
But  creeping  up  towards  the  forties,  as 

fast  as  the  old  years  fill, 
And  Time  steps  in  for  payment,  we  seem 

to  change  a  bill. 

"  —  I  know  it,  —  I  said,  —  old  fellow  ; 
you  speak  the  solemn  truth  ;  . 

A.  man  can't  live  to  a  hundred  and  like- 
wise keep  his  youth ; 


But  what  if  the  ten  years  coming  shall 

silver-streak  my  hair, 
You  know  I  shall  then  be  forty ;  of 

course  I  shall  not  care. 

"At  forty  a  man  grows  heavy  and  tired 

of  fun  and  noise  ; 
Leaves  dress  to  the  five-and-twenties  and 

love  to  the  silly  boys  ; 
No  foppish  tricks  at  forty,  uo  pinching 

of  waists  and  toes, 
But  high-low  shoes  and  flannels  and  good 

thick  worsted  hose." 

But  one  fine  August  morning  I  found 

myself  awake  : 
My  birthday  :  —  By  Jove,  I  'm  forty  ! 

Yes,  forty,  and  no  mistake  ! 
Why  this  is  the  very  milestone,  I  think 

I  used  to  hold, 
That  when  a  fellow  had  come  to,  a  fellow 

would  then  be  old ! 

But  that  is  the  young  folks'  nonsense  ; 

they  're  full  of  their  foolish  stuff ; 
A  man  's  in  his  prime  at  forty,  —  I  see 

that  plain  enough ; 
At  fifty  a  man  is  wrinkled,  and  may  be 

bald  or  gray ; 
I  call  men  old  at  fifty,  in  spite  of  all 

they  say. 

At  last  comes  another  August  with  mist 
and  rain  and  shine ; 


294 


ADDITIONAL  POEMS. 


Its  mornings  are  slowly  counted  and 

creep  to  twenty-nine, 
And  when  on  the  western  summits  the 

fading  light  appears, 
It  touches  with  rosy  fingers  the  last  of 

my  fifty  years. 

There  have  been  both  men  and  women 

whose  hearts  were  firm  and  bold, 
But  there  never  was  one  of  fifty  that 

loved  to  say  "I'm  old"  ; 
So  any  elderly  person  that  strives  to 

shirk  his  years, 
Make  him  stand  up  at  a  table  and  try 

him  by  Ms  peers. 

Now  here  I  stand  at  fifty,    my  jury 

gathered  round ; 
Sprinkled  with  dust  of  silver,  but  not 

yet  silver-crowned, 
Ready  to  meet  your  verdict,  waiting  to 

hear  it  told ; 
Guilty  of  fifty  summers  ;  speak  !     Is  the 

verdict  old  ? 

No  !  say  that  his  hearing  fails  him  ;  say 
that  his  sight  grows  dim ; 

Say  that  he 's  getting  wrinkled  and  weak 
in  back  and  limb, 

Losing  his  wits  and  temper,  but  plead- 
ing, to  make  amends, 

The  youth  of  his  fifty  summers  he  finds 
in  Ms  twenty  friends. 


A  FAREWELL  TO  AGASSIZ. 

How  the  mountains  talked  together, 
Looking  down  upon  the  weather, 
When  they  heard  our  friend  had  planned 

his 

Little  trip  among  the  Andes  ! 
How  they  '11  bare  their  snowy  scalps 
To  the  climber  of  the  Alps 
When  the  cry  goes  through  their  passes, 


"  Here  comes  the  great  Agassiz  ! " 
"  Yes,  I  'm  tall,"  says  Chimborazo, 
"  But  I  wait  for  him  to  say  so,  — 
That 's  the  only  thing  that  lacks,  — 

he 

Must  see  me,  Cotopaxi  ! " 
"  Ay  !  ay  !  "  the  fire-peak  thunders, 
"  And  he  must  view  my  wonders  ! 
I  'm  but  a  lonely  crater 
Till  I  have  him  for  spectator  !  " 
The  mountain  hearts  are  yearning, 
The  lava-torches  burning, 
The  rivers  bend  to  meet  Mm, 
The  forests  bow  to  greet  him, 
It  thrills  the  spinal  column 
Of  fossil  fishes  solemn, 
And  glaciers  crawl  the  faster 
To  the  feet  of  their  old  master  ! 

Heaven  keep  him  well  and  hearty, 
Both  him  and  all  his  party ! 
From  the  sun  that  broils  and  smites, 
From  the  centipede  that  bites, 
From  the  hail-storm  and  the  thunder, 
From  the  vampire  and  the  condor, 
From  the  gust  upon  the  river, 
From  the  sudden  earthquake  shiver, 
From  the  trip  of  mule  or  donkey, 
From  the  midnight  howling  monkey, 
From  the  stroke  of  knife  or  dagger, 
From  the  puma  and  the  jaguar, 
From  the  horrid  boa-constrictor 
That  has  scared  us  in  the  pictur', 
From  the  Indians  of  the  Pampas 
Who  would  dine  upon  their  grampas, 
From  every  beast  and  vermin 
That  to  think  of  sets  us  squirming, 
From  every  snake  that  tries  on 
The  traveller  his  p'ison, 
From  every  pest  of  Natur', 
Likewise  the  alligator, 
And  from  two  things  left  behind  him,  — 
(Be  sure  they  '11  try  to  find  Mm,) 
The  tax-bill  and  assessor,  — 
Heaven  keep  the  great  Professor  ! 


LOUIS    AGASSIZ.     Page  294. 


A   SEA   DIALOGUE. 


295 


May  he  find,  with  his  apostles, 
That  the  land  is  full  of  fossils, 
That  the  waters  swarm  with  fishes 
Shaped  according  to  his  wishes, 
That  every  pool  is  fertile 
In  fancy  kinds  of  turtle, 
New  birds  around  him  singing, 
New  insects,  never  stinging, 
With  a  million  novel  data 
About  the  articulata, 
And  facts  that  strip  off  all  husks 
From  the  history  of  mollusks. 

And  when,  with  loud  Te  Deum, 
He  returns  to  his  Museum, 
May  he  find  the  monstrous  reptile 
That  so  long  the  land  has  kept  ill 
By  Grant  and  Sherman  throttled, 
And  by  Father  Abraham  bottled, 
(All  specked  and  streaked   and   mot- 
tled 

"With  the  scars  of  murderous  battles, 
Where  he  clashed  the  iron  rattles 
That  gods  and  men  he  shook  at,) 
For  all  the  world  to  look  at ! 

God  bless  the  great  Professor  ! 
And  Madam,  too,  God  bless  her ! 
Bless  him  and  all  his  band, . 
On  the  sea  and  on  the  land, 
Bless  them  head  and  heart  and  hand, 
Till  their  glorious  raid  is  o'er, 
And  they  touch  our  ransomed  shore  ! 
Then  the  welcome  of  a  nation, 
With  its  shout  of  exultation, 
Shall  awake  the  dumb  creation, 
And  the  shapes  of  buried  aeons 
Join  the  living  creatures'  paeans, 
Till  the  fossil  echoes  roar  ; 
While  the  mighty  megalosaurus 
Leads  the  palaeozoic  chorus,  — 
God  bless  the  great  Professor, 
And  the  land  his  proud  possessor,  — 
Bless  them  now  and  evermore  ! 
1865. 


A  SEA  DIALOGUE. 

Cabin  Passenger.  Man  at  Wheel. 

CABIN  PASSENGER. 

FRIEND,  you  seem  thoughtful.  I  not 
wonder  much 

That  he  who  sails  the  ocean  should  be  sad. 

I  am  myself  reflective.  —  When  I  think 

Of  all  this  wallowing  beast,  the  Sea,  has 
sucked 

Between  his  sharp,  thin  lips,  the  wedgy 
waves, 

What  heaps  of  diamonds,  rubies,  emer- 
alds, pearls  ; 

What  piles  of  shekels,  talents,  ducats, 
crowns, 

What  bales  of  Tyrian  mantles,  Indian 
shawls, 

Of  laces  that  have  blanked  the  weavers' 
eyes, 

Of  silken  tissues,  wrought  by  worm  and 
man, 

The  half-starved  workman,  and  the  well- 
fed  worm  ; 

What  marbles,  bronzes,  pictures,  parch- 
ments, books  ; 

What  many-lobuled,  thought-engender- 
ing brains  ; 

Lie  with  the  gaping  sea-shells  in  his 
maw,  — 

I,  too,  am  silent ;  for  all  language  seems 

A  mockery,  and  the  speech  of  man  is 
vain. 

0  mariner,  we  look  upon  the  waves 

And  they  rebuke  our  babbling.  "Peace!" 
they  say,  — 

"  Mortal,  be  still !  "  My  noisy  tongue 
is  hushed, 

And  with  my  trembling  finger  on  my  lipa 

My  soul  exclaims  in  ecstasy  — 

MAN  AT  WHEEL. 

Belay ! 

CABIN   PASSENGER, 

Ah  yes!  "Delay,"  —  it  calls,  "nor 
haste  to  break 


296 


ADDITIONAL  POEMS. 


The   charm  of  stillness  with  an  idle 
word  ! " 

0  mariner,  I  love  thee,  for  thy  thought 
Strides  even  with  my  own,  nay,  flies  be- 
fore. 

Thou  art  a  brother  to  the  wind  and 

wave ; 
Have  they  not  music  for  thine  ear  as 

mine, 
When  the  wild  tempest  makes  thy  ship 

his  lyre, 
Smiting  a    cavernous  basso  from   the 

shrouds 
And  climbing  up  his  gamut  through  the 

stays, 
Through  buntlines,   bowlines,  ratlines, 

till  it  shrills 

An  alto  keener  than  the  locust  sings, 
And  all  the  great  ^Eolian  orchestra 
Storms  out  its  mad  sonata  in  the  gale  ? 
Is  not  the  scene  a  wondrous  and  — 

MAN  AT  WHEEL. 

Avast  ! 

CABIN  PASSENGER. , 

Ah  yes,  a  vast,  a  vast  and  wondrous 
scene  ! 

1  see  thy  soul  is  open  as  the  day 

That  holds  the  sunshine  in  its  azure 

bowl 

To  all  the  solemn  glories  of  the  deep. 
Tell  me,  0  mariner,  dost  thou  never  feel 
The  grandeur  of  thine  office,  —  to  control 
The  keel  that  cuts  the  ocean  like  a  knife 
And  leaves  a  wake  behind  it  like  a  seam 
In  the  great  shining  garment  of  the 

world  ? 

MAN  AT  WHEEL. 

Belay  y'r  jaw,  y'  swab  !  y'  hoss-marine  ! 

(To  the  Captain.) 

Ay,   ay,    Sir  !     Stiddy,  Sir !     Sou'wes' 
b'  sou'  ! 

November  10,  1864. 


AT  THE  "ATLANTIC"  DINNER. 

DECEMBER  15,  1874. 

I  SUPPOSE  it 's  myself  that  you  're  making 

allusion  to 
And  bringing  the  sense  of  dismay  and 

confusion  to. 
Of  course  some  must  speak,  —  they  are 

always  selected  to, 
But  pray  what 's  the  reason  that  I  am 

expected  to  ? 
I  'm  not  fond  of  wasting  my  breath  as 

those  fellows  do 

That  want  to  be  blowing  forever  as  bel- 
lows do ; 
Their  legs  are  uneasy,  but  why  will  you 

jog  any 
That  long  to  stay  quiet  beneath  the  m» 

hogany  ? 

"Why,  why  call  me  up  with  your  battery 

of  flatteries  ? 
You  say  "Rewrites  poetry," — that*« 

what  the  matter  is  ! 
"  It  costs  him  no  trouble  —  a  pen  full 

of  ink  or  two 
And  the  poem  is  done  in  the  time  of  a 

wink  or  two  ; 
As  for  thoughts — never  mind — take  the 

ones  that  lie  uppermost, 
And  the  rhymes  used   by  Milton   and 

Byron  and  Tupper  most ; 
The  lines  come  so  easy  !  at  one  end  he 

jingles  "em, 

At  the  other  with  capital  letters  he  shin- 
gles 'em,  — 
Why,  the  thing  writes  itself,  and  before 

he 's  half  done  with  it 
He  hates  to  stop  writing  he  has  such 

good  fun  with  it ! " 

Ah,  that  is  the  way  in  which  simple  ones 

go  about 
And  draw  a  fine  picture  of  things  they 

don't  know  about ! 


AT  THE  "ATLANTIC"  DINNER. 


297 


We  all  know  a  kitten,  but  come  to  a 
catamount 

The  beast  is  a  stranger  when  grown  up 
to  that  amount, 

•(A  stranger  we  rather  prefer  should  n't 
visit  us, 

A  felts  whose  advent  is  far  from  felici- 
tous.) 

The  boy  who  can  boast  that  his  trap  has 
just  got  a  mouse 

Must  n't  draw  it  and  write  underneath 
"  hippopotamus  "  ; 

Or  say  unveraciously,  "  this  is  an  ele- 
phant "  — 

Don't  think,  let  me  beg,  these  examples 
irrelevant  — 

What  they  mean  is  just  this  —  that  a 
thing  to  be  painted  well 

Should  always  be  something  with  which 
we  're  acquainted  well. 

You  call  on  your  victim  for  "things  he 
has  plenty  of,  — 

Those  copies  of  verses  no  doubt  at  least 
twenty  of ; 

His  desk  is  crammed  full,  for  he  always 
keeps  writing  "em 

And  reading  to  friends  as  his  way  of  de- 
lighting 'em  ! "  — 

I  tell  you  this  writing  of  verses  means 
business,  — 

It  makes  the  brain  whirl  in  a  vortex  of 
dizziness : 

You  think  they  are  scrawled  in  the  lan- 
guor of  laziness  — 

I  tell  you  they  're  squeezed  by  a  spasm 
of  craziness, 

A  fit  half  as  bad  as  the  staggering  vertigos 

That  seize  a  poor  fellow  and  down  in  the 
dirt  he  goes ! 

And  therefore  it  chimes  with  the  word's 

etymology 
That  the  sons  of  Apollo  are  great  on 

apology, 


For  the  writing  of  verse  is  a  struggle 

mysterious 
And  the  gayest  of  rhymes  is  a  matter 

that 's  serious. 
For  myself,  I  'm  relied  on  by  friends  in 

extremities, 
And  I  don't  mind  so  much  if  a  comfort 

to  them  it  is  ; 
'T  is  a  pleasure  to  please,  and  the  straw 

that  can  tickle  us 
Is  a  source  of  enjoyment  though  slightly 

ridiculous. 

I  am  up  for  a  —  something  —  and  since 
I  've  begun  with  it, 

I  must  give  you  a  toast  now  before  I  have 
done  with  it. 

Let  me  pump  at  my  wits  as  they  pumped 
the  Cochituate 

That  moistened  —  it  may  be  —  the  very 
last  bit  you  ate. 

—  Success  to  our  publishers,  authors  and 
editors ; 

To  our  debtors  good  luck,  —  pleasant 
dreams  to  our  creditors ; 

May  the  monthly  grow  yearly,  till  all 
we  are  groping  for 

Has  reached  the  fulfilment  we  're  all  of 
us  hoping  for ; 

Till  the  bore  through  the  tunnel  —  it 
makes  me  let  off  a  sigh 

To  think  it  may  possibly  ruin  my  proph- 
ecy— 

Has  been  punned  on  so  often 't  will  never 
provoke  again 

One  mild  adolescent  to  make  the  old 
joke  again ; 

Till  abstinent,  all -go -to -meeting  so- 
ciety 

Has  forgotten  the  sense  of  the  word  in- 
ebriety ; 

Till  the  work  that  poor  Hannah  and 
Bridget  and  Phillis  do 

The  humanized,  civilized  female  gorillas 
do; 


298 


ADDITIONAL   POEMS. 


Till  the  roughs,  as  we  call  them,  grown 
loving  and  dutiful, 

Shall  worship  the  true  and  the  pure  and 
the  beautiful, 

And,  preying  no  longer  as  tiger  and  vul- 
ture do, 

All  read  the  "Atlantic"  as  persons  of 
culture  do  ! 

"LUCY." 

FOB   HER    GOLDEN   WEDDING,    OCTOBER 
18,  1875. 

"  LUCY."  —  The  old  familiar  name 

Is  now,  as  always,  pleasant, 
Its  liquid  melody  the  same 

Alike  in  past  or  present ; 
Let  others  call  you  what  they  will, 

I  know  you  '11  let  me  use  it ; 
To  me  your  name  is  Lucy  still, 

I  cannot  bear  to  lose  it. 

What  visions  of  the  past  return 

With  Lucy's  image  blended  ! 
What  memories  from  the  silent  iirn 

Of  gentle  lives  long  ended  ! 
What   dreams   of  childhood's    fleeting 
morn, 

What  starry  aspirations, 
That  filled  the  misty  days  unborn 

With  fancy's  coruscations  ! 

Ah,  Lucy,  life  has  swiftly  sped 

From  April  to  November  ; 
The  summer  blossoms  all  are  shed 

That  you  and  I  remember  ; 
But  while  the  vanished  years  we  share 

With  mingling  recollections, 
How  all  their  shadowy  features  wear 

The  hue  of  old  affections  ! 

Love  called  you.     He  who  stole  your 

heart 
Of  sunshine  half  bereft  us  ; 


Our  household's  garland  fell  apart 
The  morning  that  you  left  us  ; 

The  tears  of  tender  girlhood  streamed 
Through  sorrow's  opening  sluices  ; 

Less  sweet  our  garden's  roses  seemed, 
Less  blue  its  flower-de-luces. 

That  old  regret  is  turned  to  smiles, 

That  parting  sigh  to  greeting  ; 
I  send  my  heart-throb  fifty  miles,  — 

Through  every  line  't  is  beating  ; 
God  grant  you  many  and  happy  years, 

Till  when  the  last  has  crowned  you 
The  dawn  of  endless  day  appears, 

And  Heaven  is  shining  round  you  ! 

October  11,  1875. 

HYMN. 

FOR  THE  INAUGURATION  OF  THE  STATUE 
OF  GOVERNOR  ANDREW,  HINGHAM, 
OCTOBER  7,  1875. 

BEHOLD  the  shape  our  eyes  have  known ! 
It  lives  once  more  in  changeless  stone ; 
So  looked  in  mortal  face  and  form 
Our  guide  through  peril's  deadly  storm. 

But  hushed  the  beating  heart  we  knew, 
That  heart  so  tender,  brave,  and  true, 
Firm  as  the  rooted  mountain  rock, 
Pure  as  the  quarry's  whitest  block  ! 

Not  his  beneath  the  blood-red  star 
To  win  the  soldier's  envied  scar  ; 
Unarmed  he  battled  for  the  right, 
In  Duty's  never-ending  fight. 

Unconquered  will,  unslumbering  eye, 
Faith  such  as  bids  the  martyr  die, 
The  prophet's  glance,  the  master's  hand 
To  mould  the  work  his  foresight  planned, 

These  were  his  gifts  ;  what  Heaven  had 

lent 
For  justice,  mercy,  truth,  he  spent, 


A  MEMORIAL  TRIBUTE. 


299 


First  to  avenge  the  traitorous  blow, 
And  first  to  lift  the  vanquished  foe. 

Lo,  thus  he  stood ;  in  danger's  strait 
The  pilot  of  the  Pilgrim  State ! 
Too  large  his  fame  for  her  alone,  — 
A  nation  claims  him  as  her  own ! 


A  MEMORIAL  TRIBUTE. 

READ  AT  THE  MEETING  HELD  AT  MUSIC 
HALL,  FEBRUARY  8,  1876,  IN  MEMORY 
OF  DR.  SAMUEL  G.  HOWE. 

I. 

LEADER  of  armies,  Israel's  God, 

Thy  soldier's  fight  is  won  ! 
Master,  whose  lowly  path  he  trod, 

Thy  servant's  work  is  done  ! 

No  voice  is  heard  from  Sinai's  steep 
Our  wandering  feet  to  guide  ; 

From  Horeb's  rock  no  waters  leap  ; 
No  Jordan's  waves  divide  ; 

No  prophet  cleaves  our  western  sky 

On  wheels  of  whirling  fire  ; 
No  shepherds  hear  the  song  on  high 

Of  heaven's  angelic  choir : 

Yet  here  as  to  the  patriarch's  tent 

God's  angel  comes  a  guest ; 
He  comes  on  heaven's  high  errand  sent, 

In  earth's  poor  raiment  drest. 

We  see  no  halo  round  his  brow 

Till  love  its  own  recalls, 
And  like  a  leaf  that  quits  the  bough, 

The  mortal  vesture  falls. 

In  autumn's  chill  declining  day, 

Ere  winter's  killing  frost, 
The  message  came ;  so  passed  away 

The  friend  our  earth  has  lost. 


Still,  Father,  in  Thy  love  we  trust ; 

Forgive  us  if  we  mourn 
The  saddening  hour  that  laid  in  dust 

His  robe  of  flesh  outworn. 


II. 

How  long    the  wreck-strewn   journey 

seems 

To  reach  the  far-off  past 
That   woke    his  youth  from    peaceful 

dreams 
With  Freedom's  trumpet-blast ! 

Along  her  classic  hillsides  rung 

The  Paynim's  battle-cry, 
And  like  a  red-cross  knight  he  sprung 

For  her  to  live  or  die. 

No  trustier  service  claimed  the  wreath 

For  Sparta's  bravest  son  ; 
No  truer  soldier  sleeps  beneath 

The  mound  of  Marathon  ; 

Yet  not  for  him  the  warrior's  grave 

In  front  of  angry  foes  ; 
To  lift,  to  shield,  to  help,  to  save, 

The  holier  task  he  chose. 

He  touched  the  eyelids  of  the  blind, 
And  lo  !  the  veil  withdrawn, 

As  o'er  the  midnight  of  the  mind, 
He  led  the  light  of  dawn. 

He  asked  not  whence  the  fountains  roll 
No  traveller's  foot  has  found, 

But  mapped  the  desert  of  the  soul 
Untracked  by  sight  or  sound. 

What  prayers  have  reached  the  sapphire 

throne, 

By  silent  fingers  spelt, 
For  him  who  first  through  depths  iin- 

known 
His  doubtful  pathway  felt, 


ADDITIONAL   POEMS. 


Who  sought  the  slumbering  sense  that 
lay 

Close  shut  with  bolt  and  bar, 
And  showed  awakening  thought  the  ray 

Of  reason's  morning  star  ! 

Where'er  he  moved,  his  shadowy  form 
The  sightless  orbs  would  seek, 

And  smiles  of  welcome  light  and  warm 
The  lips  that  could  not  speak. 

No  labored  line,  no  sculptor's  art, 
Such  hallowed  memory  needs  ; 

His  tablet  is  the  human  heart, 
His  record  loving  deeds. 

III. 

The  rest  that  earth  denied  is  thine,  — 

Ah,  is  it  rest  ?  we  ask, 
Or,  traced  by  knowledge  more  divine, 

Some  larger,  nobler  task  ? 

Had  but  those  boundless  fields  of  blue 
One  darkened  sphere  like  this  ; 

But  what  has  heaven  for  thee  to  do 
In  realms  of  perfect  bliss  ? 

No  cloud  to  lift,  no  mind  to  clear, 

No  rugged  path  to  smooth, 
No  struggling  soul  to  help  and  cheer, 

No  mortal  grief  to  soothe  ! 

Enough ;  is  there  a  world  of  love, 

No  more  we  ask  to  know  ; 
The  hand  will  guide  thy  ways  above 

That  shaped  thy  task  below. 


JOSEPH   WARREN,  M.  D. 

TRAINED  in  the  holy  art  whose  lifted 

shield 
Wards  off  the  darts  a  never-slumbering 

foe, 


By  hearth  and  wayside  lurking,  waits  to 

throw, 
Oppression  taught  his  helpful  arm  to 

wield 
The  slayer's  weapon  :  on  the  murderous 

field 
The  fiery  bolt  he  challenged  laid  him 

low, 

Seeking  its  noblest  victim.     Even  so 
The  charter  of  a  nation  must  be  sealed  ! 
The  healer's  brow  the    hero's   honors 

crowned, 
From  lowliest   duty  called  to  loftiest 

deed. 
Living,  the  oak-leaf  wreath  his  temples 

bound ; 
Dying,  the  conqueror's  laurel  was  his 

meed, 
Last  on  the  broken  ramparts'  turf  to 

bleed 
Where  Freedom's  victory  in  defeat  was 

found. 

June  11,  1875. 

GRANDMOTHER'S  STORY  OF  BUNKER- 
HILL  BATTLE. 

AS  SHE  SAW   IT  FROM   THE  BELFRY. 

'T  is  like  stirring  living  embers  when, 

at  eighty,  one  remembers 
All  the  achings  and  the  quakings  of 

"the  times  that  tried  men's  souls" ; 
When  I  talk  of  Whig  and  Tory,  when 

I  tell  the  Rebel  story, 
To  you  the  words  are  ashes,  but  to  me 

they  're  burning  coals. 

I  had  heard  the  muskets'  rattle  of  the 

April  running  battle  ; 
Lord  Percy's  hunted  soldiers,  I  can  see 

their  red  coats  still ; 
But  a  deadly  chill  comes  o'er  me,  as  the 

day  looms  up  before  me, 
When  a  thousand  men  lay  bleeding  on 

the  slopes  of  Bunker's  Hill. 


GRANDMOTHER'S  STORY  OF  BUNKER-HILL  BATTLE.       301 


'T  was  a  peaceful  summer's  morning, 

when  the  first  thing  gave  us  warning 
Was  the  booming  of  the  cannon  from  the 

river  and  the  shore  : 
"Child,"  says  grandma,   "what's  the 

matter,  what  is  all  this  noise  and 

clatter  ? 
Have  those  scalping  Indian  devils  come 

to  murder  us  once  more  ? " 

Poor  old  soul !  my  sides  were  shaking 

in  the  midst  of  all  my  quaking, 
To  hear  her  talk  of  Indians  when  the 

guns  began  to  roar : 
She  had  seen  the  burning  village,  and 

the  slaughter  and  the  pillage, 
When  the  Mohawks  killed  her  father 

with  their  bullets  through  his  door. 

Then  I  said,  "Now,  dear  old  granny, 

don't  you  fret  and  worry  any, 
For  I  '11  soon  come  back  and  tell  you 

whether  this  is  work  or  play; 
There  can't  be  mischief  in  it,  so  I  won't 

be  gone  a  minute  "  — 
For  a  minute  then  I  started.     I  was 

gone  the  livelong  day. 

No  time  for  bodice-lacing  or  for  looking- 
glass  grimacing ; 

Down  my  hair  went  as  I  hurried,  tum- 
bling half-way  to  my  heels ; 

God  forbid  your  ever  knowing,  when 
there  's  blood  around  her  flowing, 

How  the  lonely,  helpless  daughter  of  a 
quiet  household  feels  ! 

In  the  street  I  heard  a  thumping  ;  and 

I  knew  it  was  the  stumping 
Of  the  Corporal,  our  old  neighbor,  on 

that  wooden  leg  he  wore, 
With  a  knot  of  women  round  him,  —  it 

was  lucky  I  had  found  him, 
So  I  followed  with  the  others,  and  the 

Corporal  marched  before. 


They  were  making  for  the  steeple,  —  the 

old  soldier  and  his  people  ; 
The    pigeons  circled  round  us  as  we 

climbed  the  creaking  stair, 
Just  across   the   narrow  river  —  0,  so 

close  it  made  me  shiver !  — 
Stood  a  fortress  on  the  hill-top  that  but 

yesterday  was  bare. 

Not  slow  our  eyes  to  find  it ;  well  we 
knew  who  stood  behind  it, 

Though  the  earthwork  hid  them  from 
us,  and  the  stubborn  walls  were 
dumb : 

Here  were  sister,  wife,  and  mother,  look- 
ing wild  upon  each  other, 

And  their  lips  were  white  with  terror  as 
they  said,  THE  HOUR  HAS  COME  ! 

The  morning  slowly  wasted,  not  a  mor- 
sel had  we  tasted, 

And  our  heads  were  almost  splitting 
with  the  cannons'  deafening  thrill, 

When  a  figure  tall  and  stately  round 
the  rampart  strode  sedately; 

It  was  PRESCOTT,  one  since  told  me  ;  he 
commanded  on  the  hill. 

Every  woman's  heart  grew  bigger  when 
we  saw  his  manly  figure, 

With  the  banyan  buckled  round  it, 
standing  up  so  straight  and  tall ; 

Like  a  gentleman  of  leisure  who  is 
strolling  out  for  pleasure, 

Through  the  storm  of  shells  and  can- 
non-shot he  walked  around  the  wall. 

At  eleven  the  streets  were  swarming,  for 

the  red-coats'  ranks  were  forming  ; 
At  noon  in  marching  order  they  were 

moving  to  the  piers; 
How  the  bayonets  gleamed  and  glistened, 

as  we  looked  far  down,  and  listened 
To  the  trampling  and  the  drum-beat  of 

the  belted  grenadiers  ! 


302 


ADDITIONAL  POEMS. 


At  length  the  men  have  started,  with  a 

cheer  (it  seemed  faint-hearted), 
In  their  scarlet  regimentals,  with  their 

knapsacks  on  their  backs, 
And  the  reddening,  rippling  water,  as 

after  a  sea-fight's  slaughter, 
Round     the    barges    gliding    onward 

blushed   like    blood    along    their 

tracks. 

So  they  crossed  to  the  other  border,  and 
again  they  formed  in  order  ; 

And  the  boats  came  back  for  soldiers, 
came  for  soldiers,  soldiers  still : 

The  time  seemed  everlasting  to  us  wo- 
men faint  and  fasting,  — 

At  last  they  're  moving,  marching, 
inarching  proudly  up  the  hill. 

We  can  see  the  bright  steel  glancing  all 

along  the  lines  advancing  — 
Now  the  front  rank  fires  a  volley — they 

have  thrown  away  their  shot ; 
For  behind  their  earthwork  lying,  all 

the  balls  above  them  flying, 
Our  people  need  not  hurry ;  so  they 

wait  and  answer  not. 

Then  the  Corporal,  our  old  cripple  (he 
would  swear  sometimes  and  tip- 
ple), - 

He  had  heard  the  bullets  whistle  (in  the 
old  French  war)  before,  — 

Calls  out  ia  words  of  jeering,  just  as  if 
they  all  were  hearing,  — 

And  his  wooden  leg  thumps  fiercely  on 
the  dusty  belfry  floor  :  — 

"  Oh  !  fire  away,  ye  villains,  and  earn 

King  George's  shillin's, 
But  ye  '11  waste  a  ton  of  powder  afore 

a  '  rebel '  falls  ; 
You  may  bang  the  dirt  and  welcome, 

they  're  as  safe  as  Dan'l  Malcolm 
Ten  foot  beneath  the  gravestone  that 

you  've  splintered  with  your  balls ! " 


In  the  hush  of  expectation,  in  the  awe 

and  trepidation 
Of  the  dread  approaching  moment,  we 

are  wellnigh  breathless  all ; 
Though  the  rotten  bars  are  failing  on 

the  rickety  belfry  railing, 
We  are  crowding  up  against  them  like 

the  waves  against  a  wall. 

Just  a  glimpse  (the  air  is  clearer),  they 
are  nearer,  —  nearer,  —  nearer, 

When  a  flash  —  a  curling  smoke-wreath 
—  then  a  crash  —  the  steeple 
shakes  — 

The  deadly  truce  is  ended  ;  the  tem- 
pest's shroud  is  rended ; 

Like  a  morning  mist  it  gathered,  like  a 
thunder-cloud  it  breaks ! 

0  the  sight  our  eyes  discover  as  the 

blue-black  smoke  blows  over ! 
The  red-coats  stretched  in  windrows  as 

a  mower  rakes  his  hay; 
Here  a  scarlet  heap  is  lying,  there  a 

headlong  crowd  is  flying 
Like  a  billow  that  has  broken  and  is 

shivered  into  spray. 

Then  we  cried,  "The  troops  are  routed! 

they  are  beat  —  it  can't  be  doubted ! 
God  be  thanked,  the  fight  is  over  ! "  — 

Ah !  the  grim  old  soldier's  smile ! 
"  Tell  us,  tell  us  why  you  look  so  ? "  (we 

could  hardly  speak,  we  shook  so),  — 
"Are  they  beaten?    Are  they  beaten  I 

ARE    they   beaten?"  —  "Wait    a 

while." 

0  the  trembling  and  the  terror  !  for  too 

soon  we  saw  our  error  : 
They  are  baffled,  not  defeated  ;  we  have 

driven  them  back  in  vain  ; 
And  the  columns  that  were  scattered, 

round  the  colors  that  were  tattered, 
Toward  the  sullen  silent  fortress  turn 

their  belted  breasts  again. 


GRANDMOTHER'S  STORY  OF  BUNKER-HILL  BATTLE.       303 


All  at  once,  as  we  are  gazing,  lo  the 

roofs  of  Charlestown  blazing  ! 
They  have  fired  the  harmless  village  ; 

in  an  hour  it  will  be  down! 
The   Lord  in  heaven   confound  them, 

rain  his  fire  and  brimstone  round 

them,  — 
The  robbing,  murdering  red-coats,  that 

would  burn  a  peaceful  town  ! 

They  are  marching,  stern  and  solemn  ; 

we  can  see  each  massive  column 
As  they  near  the  naked  earth-mound 

with  the  slanting  walls  so  steep. 
Have  our  soldiers  got  faint-hearted,  and 

in  noiseless  haste  departed  ? 
Are    they  panic-struck  and    helpless? 

Are  they  palsied  or  asleep  ? 

Now !  the  walls  they  're  almost  under ! 

scarce  a  rod  the  foes  asunder ! 
Not  a  firelock  flashed  against  them  !  up 

the  earthwork  they  will  swarm ! 
But  the  words  have  scarce  been  spoken, 

when  the  ominous  calm  is  broken, 
And  a  bellowing  crash  has  emptied  all 

the  vengeance  of  the  storm  ! 

So  again,   with  murderous    slaughter, 

pelted  backwards  to  the  water, 
Fly   Pigot's  running   heroes    and    the 

frightened  braves  of  Howe  ; 
And  we  shout,  "At  last  they're  done 

for,  it 's  their  barges  they  have  run 

for  : 
They  are  beaten,  beaten,  beaten  ;  and 

the  battle  's  over  now ! " 

And  we  looked,  poor  timid  creatures,  on 

the  rough  old  soldier's  features, 
Our  lips  afraid  to  question,  but  he  knew 

what  we  would  ask  : 
"Not  sure,"  he  said  ;  "keep  quiet,  — 

once  more,  I  guess,  they  '11  try  it  — 
Here 's  damnation  to  the  cut-throats  ! " 

then  he  handed  me  his  flask, 


Saying,  "  Gal,  you  're  looking  shaky ; 
have  a  drop  of  old  Jamaiky; 

I  'm  afeard  there  '11  be  more  trouble  afore 
the  job  is  done  "  ; 

So  I  took  one  scorching  swallow ;  dread- 
ful faint  I  felt  and  hollow, 

Standing  there  from  early  morning  when 
the  firing  was  begun. 

All  through  those  hours  of  trial  I  had 
watched  a  calm  clock  dial, 

As  the  hands  kept  creeping,  creeping,  — 
they  were  creeping  round  to  four, 

When  the  old  man  said,  "  They  're  form- 
ing with  their  bagonets  fixed  for 
storming : 

It 's  the  death-grip  that 's  a  coming,  — 
they  will  try  the  works  once  more." 

With    brazen    trumpets    blaring,    the 

flames  behind  them  glaring, 
The  deadly  wall  before  them,  in  close 

array  they  come  ; 
Still  onward,   upward   toiling,    like    a 

dragon's  fold  uncoiling,  — 
Like  the   rattlesnake's   shrill  warning 

the  reverberating  drum  ! 

Over  heaps  all  torn  and  gory  —  shall  I 

tell  the  fearful  story, 
How  they  surged  above  the  breastwork, 

as  a  sea  breaks  over  a  deck  ; 
How,  driven,  yet  scarce  defeated,  our 

worn-out  men  retreated, 
With  their  powder-horns  all  emptied, 

like  the  swimmers  from  a  wreck  ? 

It  has  all  been  told  and  painted  ;  as  for 

me,  they  say  I  fainted, 
And    the  wooden-legged   old  Corporal 

stumped  with  me  down  the  stair : 
When  I  woke  from  dreams  affrighted 

the  evening  lamps  were  lighted,  — 
On   the  floor  a  youth  was  lying ;  his 

bleeding  breast  was  bare. 


304 


ADDITIONAL  POEMS. 


And   I   heard   through  all  the  flurry, 

"Send  for  WARREK  !  hurry !  hurry! 
Tell  him  here  's  a  soldier  bleeding,  and 

he  '11  come  and  dress  his  wound ! " 
Ah,  we  knew  not  till  the  morrow  told 

its  tale  of  death  and  sorrow, 
How  the  starlight  found  him  stiffened 

on  the  dark  and  bloody  ground. 

Who  the  youth  was,  what  his  name  was, 

where    the    place  from  which  he 

came  was, 
Who  had  brought  him  from  the  battle, 

and  had  left  him  at  our  door, 
He   could  not   speak  to  tell  us;  but 

't  was  one  of  our  brave  fellows, 
As  the  homespun  plainly   showed   us 

which  the  dying  soldier  wore. 

For  they  all  thought  he  was  dying,  as 

they  gathered  round  him  crying,  — 
And  they  said,  "0,  how  they'll  miss 

him!"  and,  "What  will  his  mother 

do?" 
Then,  his  eyelids  just  unclosing  like  a 

child's  that  has  been  dozing, 
He  faintly  murmured,  "Mother!" 

and  —  I  saw  his  eyes  were  blue. 

•—  "Why,  grandma,  how  you're  wink- 
ing ! "  —  Ah,  my  child,  it  sets  me 
thinking 

Of  a  story  not  like  this  one.  Well,  he 
somehow  lived  along ; 

So  we  came  to  know  each  other,  and  I 
nursed  him  like  a  —  mother, 

Till  at  last  he  stood  before  me,  tall,  and 
rosy-cheeked,  and  strong. 

And  we  sometimes  walked  together  in 
the  pleasant  summer  weather ; 

—  "Please  to  tell  us  what  his  name 
was?"  — Just  your  own,  my  little 
dear,  — 


There 's  his  picture  Copley  painted  :  we 
became  so  well  acquainted, 

That  —  in  short,  that 's  why  I  'm  grand- 
ma, and  you  children  all  are  here ! 


OLD  CAMBRIDGE. 

JULY  3,  1875. 

AND  can  it  be  you  've  found  a  place 
Within  this  consecrated  space 

That  makes  so  fine  a  show 
For  one  of  Rip  Van  Winkle's  race  ? 

And  is  it  really  so  ? 
Who  wants  an  old  receipted  bill  ? 
Who  fishes  in  the  Frog-pond  still  ? 
Who  digs  last  year's  potato  hill  ?  — 

That 's  what  he  'd  like  to  know ! 

And  were  it  any  spot  on  earth 

Save  this  dear  home  that  gave  him  birth 

Some  scores  of  years  ago, 
He  had  not  come  to  spoil  your  mirth 

And  chill  your  festive  glow ; 
But  round  his  baby-nest  he  strays, 
With  tearful  eye  the  scene  surveys, 
His    heart    unchanged    by    changing 


That 's  what  he  'd  have  you  know. 

Can  you  whose  eyes  not  yet  are  dim 
Live  o'er  the  buried  past  with  him, 

And  see  the  roses  blow 
When  white-haired  men  were  Joe  and 
Jim 

Untouched  by  winter's  snow  1 
Or  roll  the  years  back  one  by  one 
As  Judah's  monarch  backed  the  sun, 
And  see  the  century  just  begun  ?  — 

That 's  what  he  'd  like  to  know  ! 

I  come,  but  as  the  swallow  dips, 
Just  touching  with  her  feather-tips 
The  shining  wave  below, 


OLD   CAMBRIDGE. 


305 


To  sit  with  pleasure-murmuring  lips 

And  listen  to  the  flow 
Of  Elmwood's  sparkling  Hippocrene, 
To  tread  once  more  my  native  green, 
To  sigh  unheard,  to  smile  unseen,  — 

That 's  what  I  'd  have  you  know. 

But  since  the  common  lot  I  've  shared 
(We  all  are  sitting  "  unprepared," 

Like  culprits  in  a  row, 
Whose  heads  are  down,  whose  necks  are 
bared 

To  wait  the  headsman's  blow) 
I'd  like  to  shift  my  task  to  you, 
By  asking  just  a  thing  or  two 
About  the  good  old  times  I  knew,  — 

Here 's  what  I  want  to  know  : 

The  yellow  meetin'  house  —  can  you  tell 
Just  where  it  stood  before  it  fell 

Prey  of  the  vandal  foe,  — 
Our  dear  old  temple,  loved  so  well 

By  ruthless  hands  laid  low  ? 
Where,  tell  me,  was  the  Deacon's  pew  ? 
Whose  hair  was  braided  in  a  queue  ? 
(For  there  were  pig- tails  not  a  few,)  — 

That 's  what  I  'd  like  to  know. 

The  bell  —  can  you  recall  its  clang  ? 
And  how  the  seats  would  slam  and  bang  ? 

The  voices  high  and  low  ? 
The  basso's  trump  before  he  sang  ? 

The  viol  and  its  bow  ? 
Where  was  it  old  Judge  Winthrop  sat  ? 
Who  wore  the  last  three-cornered  hat  ? 
Was  Israel  Porter  lean  or  fat  ?  — 

That 's  what  I  'd  like  to  know. 

Tell  where  the  market  used  to  be 
That  stood  beside  the  murdered  tree  ? 

Whose  dog  to  church  would  go  ? 
Old  Marcus  Reemie,  who  was  he  ? 

Who  were  the  brothers  Snow  ? 
Does  not  your  memory  slightly  fail 
About  that  great  September  gale 


Whereof  one  told  a  moving  tale, 
As  Cambridge  boys  should  know. 

When  Cambridge  was  a  simple  town, 
Say  just  when  Deacon  William  Brown 

(Last  door  in  yonder  row), 
For  honest  silver  counted  down, 

His  groceries  would  bestow  ?  — 
For  those  were  days  when  money  meant 
Something  that  jingled  as  you  went,  — 
No  hybrid  like  the  nickel  cent, 

I  'd  have  you  all  to  know, 

But  quarter,  ninepence,  pistareen, 
And  fourpence  happennies  in  between 

All  metal  fit  to  show, 
Instead  of  rags  in  stagnant  green, 

The  scum  of  debts  we  owe  ; 
How  sad  to  think  such  stuff  should  be 
Our  Wendell's  cure-all  recipe,  — 
Not  Wendell  H.,  but  Wendell  P.,  - 

The  one  you  all  must  know  ! 

I  question  —  but  you  answer  not  — 
Dear  me  !  and  have  I  quite  forgot 

How  fivescore  years  ago, 
Just  on  this  very  blessed  spot, 

The  summer  leaves  below, 
Before  his  homespun  ranks  arrayed 
In  green  New  England's  elmbough  shade 
The  great  Virginian  drew  the  blade 

King  George  full  soon  should  know ! 

0  George  the  Third  !  you  found  it  true 
Our  George  was  more  than  double  you, 

For  nature  made  him  so. 
Not  much  an  empire's  crown  can  do 

If  brains  are  scant  and  slow,  — 
Ah,  not  like  that  his  laurel  crown 
Whose  presence  gilded  with  renown 
Our  brave  old  Academic  town, 

As  all  her  children  know  ! 

So  here  we  meet  with  loud  acclaim 
To  tell  mankind  that  here  he  came, 
With  hearts  that  throb  and  glow  ; 


306 


ADDITIONAL   POEMS. 


Ours  is  a  portion  of  his  fame 
Our  trumpets  needs  must  blow  ! 

On  yonder  hill  the  Lion  fell, 

But  here  was  chipped  the  eagle's  shell,  — 

That  little  hatchet  did  it  well, 
As  all  the  world  shall  know  ! 

WELCOME  TO  THE  NATIONS. 

PHILADELPHIA,   JULY  4,  1876. 

BRIGHT  on  the  banners  of  lily  and  rose 

Lo  !  the  last  sun  of  our  century  sets ! 

Wreath  the  black  cannon  that  scowled 

on  our  foes, 

All  but  her  friendships  the  nation  for- 
gets ! 
All  but  her  friends  and  their  welcome 

forgets  ! 
These  are  around  her ;  but  where  are 

her  foes  ? 

Lo,  while  the  sun  of  her  century  sets, 
Peace  with  her  garlands  of  lily  and 
rose ! 

Welcome  !  a  shout  like  the  war  trumpet's 

swell 
Wakes  the  wild  echoes  that  slumber 

around  ! 

Welcome !  it  quivers  from  Liberty's  bell ; 
Welcome  !  the  walls  of  her  temple  re- 
sound ! 
Hark !  the  gray  walls  of  her  temple 

resound  ! 

Fade  the  far  voices  o'er  hillside  and  dell ; 
Welcome !   still  whisper  the   echoes 

around ; 

Welcome  !  still  trembles  on  Liberty's 
bell! 

Thrones  of  the  continents  !  isles  of  the 

sea  ! 
Yours  are  the  garlands  of  peace  we 

entwine ; 
Welcome,  once  more,  to  the  land  of  the 

free, 


Shadowed  alike  by  the  palm  and  the 
pine; 

Softly  they  murmur,  the  palm  and  the 
pine, 

Hushed  is  our  strife,  in  the  land  of 
the  free  "  ; 

Over  your  children  their  branches  en- 
twine, 

Thrones  of  the  continents !  isles  of 
the  sea  ! 


A   FAMILIAR    LETTER. 

TO  SEVERAL  CORRESPONDENTS. 

YES,  write,  if  you  want  to,  there  's  noth- 
ing like  trying ; 

Who  knows  what  a  treasure  your  cas- 
ket may  hold  ? 

I  '11  show  you  that  rhyming 's  as  easy  as 

lying 

If  you  '11  listen  to  me  while  the  art  I 
unfold. 


Here 's  a  book  full  of  words  ;  one  can 

choose  as  he  fancies, 
As  a  painter  his  tint,  as  a  workman 

his  tool ; 
Just  think  !  all  the  poems  and  plays  and 

romances 

Were  drawn  out  of  this,  like  the  fish 
from  a  pool ! 

You  can  wander  at  will  through  its  syl- 
labled mazes, 

And  take  all  you  want,  —  not  a  cop- 
per they  cost,  — 
What  is  there  to  hinder  your  picking 

out  phrases 

For  an  epic  as  clever  as  "Paradise 
Lost"  ? 

Don't  mind  if  the  index  of  sense  is  at 


A  FAMILIAR  LETTER. 


307 


Use  words  that  run  smoothly,  what-    'T  is  only  a  photographed  sketch  of  an 


ever  they  mean  ; 

Leander  and  Lilian  and  Lillibullero 
Are   much  the   same   thing   in   the 
rhyming  machine. 

There  are  words  so  delicious  their  sweet- 
ness will  smother 
That  boarding-school  flavor  of  which 

we  're  afraid,  — 
There  is  "  lush "  is  a  good  one,   and 

"  swirl "  is  another,  — 
Put  both  in  one  stanza,  its  fortune  is 
made. 

With  musical  murmurs  and  rhythmical 

closes 
You  can  cheat  us  of  smiles  when  you '  ve 

nothing  to  tell ; 

You  hand  us  a  nosegay  of  milliner's  roses, 
And  we  cry  with  delight,  "  0,  how 
sweet  they  do  smell !  " 

Perhaps  you  will  answer  all  needful  con- 
ditions 
For  winning  the  laurels  to  which  you 

aspire, 

By  docking  the  tails  of  the  two  preposi- 
tions 

I'  the  style  o'  the  bards  you  so  greatly 
admire. 


As  for  subjects  of  verse,  they  are  only 

too  plenty 
For  ringing  the  changes  on  metrical 

chimes ; 

&.  maiden,  a  moonbeam ,  a  lover  of  twenty 
Have  filled  that  great  basket  with 
bushels  of  rhymes. 

Let  me  show  you  a  picture  —  't  is  far 

from  irrelevant  — 

By  a  famous  old  hand  in  the  arts  of 
design  ; 


elephant,  — 

The   name  of  the  draughtsman  was 
Rembrandt  of  Rhine. 

How  easy !  no  troublesome  colors  to  lay 

on, 
It  can't  have  fatigued  him,  —  no,  not 

in  the  least,  — 
A  dash  here  and  there  with  a  hap-hazard 

crayon, 

And    there    stands    the    wrinkled- 
skinned,  baggy-limbed  beast. 

Just  so  with  your  verse,  —  't  is  as  easy 

as  sketching,  — 

You  can  reel  off  a  song  without  knit- 
ting your  brow, 
As  lightly  as  Rembrandt  a  drawing  or 

etching  ; 

It  is  nothing  at  all,  if  you  only  know 
how. 


Well ;  imagine  you've  printed  your  vol- 
ume of  verses : 
Your  forehead  is  wreathed  with  the 

garland  of  fame, 

Your  poems  the  eloquent  school-boy  re- 
hearses, 

Her  album  the  school-girl  presents  for 
your  name ; 

Each  morning  the  post  brings  you  auto- 
graph letters ; 
You  '11  answer  them  promptly,  —  an 

hour  is  n't  much 
For  the  honor  of  sharing  a  page  with 

your  betters, 

With  magistrates,  members  of  Con- 
gress, and  such. 

Of  course  you  're  delighted  to  serve  the 

committees 

That  come   with   requests  from   the 
country  all  round ; 


308 


ADDITIONAL  POEMS. 


You  would  grace  the  occasion  with  poemi 

and  ditties 

When  they  've  got  a  new  schoolhouse, 
or  poorhouse,  or  pound. 

With  a  hymn  for  the  saints  and  a  song 

for  the  sinners, 
You  go  and  are  welcome  wherever  you 

please ; 
You  're  a  privileged  guest  at  all  manner 

of  dinners, 

You  Ve  a  seat  on  the  platform  among 
the  grandees. 

At  length  your  mere  presence  becomes 

a  sensation, 
Your  cup  of  enjoyment  is  filled  to  its 

brim 
With  the  pleasure   Horatian  of  digit- 

monstration, 

As  the  whisper  runs  round  of  "  That 's 
he!  "or  "That 'shim!" 


But  remember,  0  dealer  in  phrases  sono- 
rous, 
So    daintily    chosen,     so    tunefully 

matched, 
Though  you  soar  with  the  wings  of  the 

cherubim  o'er  us, 

The  ovum  was  human  from  which  you 
were  hatched. 

No  will  of  your  own  with  its  puny  com- 
pulsion 
Can  summon  the  spirit  that  quickens 

the  lyre ; 

It  comes,  if  at  all,  like  the  Sibyl's  con- 
vulsion 

And  touches  the  brain  with  a  finger 
of  fire. 

Bo  perhaps,  after  all,  it 's  as  well  to  be 

quiet, 

If  you  've  nothing  you  think  is  worth 
saying  in  prose, 


As  to  furnish  a  meal  of  their  cannibal 

diet 

To  the  critics,  by  publishing,  as  you 
propose. 

But  it 's  all  of  no  use,  and  I  'm  sorry 

I  've  written,  — 
I  shall  see  your  thin  volume  some  day 

on  my  shelf ; 
For  the  rhyming  tarantula  surely  has 

bitten, 

And  music  must  cure  you,  so  pipe  it 
yourself. 


UNSATISFIED. 

"ONLY  a  housemaid!"      She  looked 

from  the  kitchen,  — 
Neat  was  the  kitchen  and  tidy  was 

she  ; 
There  at  her  window  a  sempstress  sat 

stitching ; 

"Were  I  a  sempstress,  how  happy 
I  'd  be  !  " 

' '  Only  a  Queen  !  "    She  looked  over  the 

waters,  — 
Fair  was  her  kingdom  and  mighty  was 

she  ; 
There  sat  an  Empress,  with  Queens  for 

her  daughters  ; 

"Were  I  an  Empress,  how  happy  I  'd 
be!" 


Still  the  old  frailty  they  all  of  them  trip 

in! 
Eve   in   her   daughters   is   ever   the 

same  ; 
rive   her   all   Eden,    she   sighs   for   a 

pippin ; 

Give  her  an  Empire,  she  pines  for  a 
name  ! 

May  8,  1870. 


HOW  THE  OLD   HORSE  WON  THE  BET. 


309 


HOW  THE  OLD   HORSE  WON   THE 
BET. 

DEDICATED  BY  A  CONTRIBUTOR  TO  THE 
COLLEGIAN,  1830,  TO  THE  EDITORS  OF 
THE  HARVARD  ADVOCATE,  1876. 

'T  WAS  on  the  famous  trotting-ground, 
The  betting  men  were  gathered  round 
From  far  and  near  ;  the  "  cracks  "  were 

there 

Whose  deeds  the  sporting  prints  declare  : 
The  swift  g.  in.,  Old  Hiram's  nag, 
The  fleet  s.  h.,  Dan  Pfeitfer's  brag, 
With  these  a  third  —  and  who  is  he 
That  stands  beside  his  fast  b.  g.  ? 
Budd  Doble,  whose  catarrhal  name 
So  fills  the  nasal  trump  of  fame. 
There  too  stood  many  a  noted  steed 
Of  Messenger  and  Morgan  breed  ; 
Green  horses  also,  not  a  few  ; 
Unknown  as  yet  what  they  could  do  ; 
And  all  the  hacks  that  know  so  well 
The  scourgings  of  the  Sunday  swell. 

Blue  are  the  skies  of  opening  day ; 
The  bordering  turf  is  green  with  May ; 
The  sunshine's  golden  gleam  is  thrown 
On  sorrel,  chestnut,  bay,  and  roan  ; 
The  horses  paw  and  prance  and  neigh, 
Fillies  and  colts  like  kittens  play, 
And  dance  and  toss  their  rippled  manes 
Shining  and  soft  as  silken  skeins  ; 
Wagons  and  gigs  are  ranged  about, 
And  fashion  flaunts  her  gay  turn-out ; 
Here    stands  —  each    youthful    Jehu's 

dream  — 

The  jointed  tandem,  ticklish  team ! 
And  there  in  ampler  breadth  expand 
The  splendors  of  the  four-in-hand  ; 
On  faultless  ties  and  glossy  tiles 
The  lovely  bonnets  beam  their  smiles  ; 
(The  style 's  the  man,  so  books  avow; 
The  style 's  the  woman,  anyhow) ; 
From  flounces  frothed  with  creamy  lace 
Peeps  out  the  pug-dog's  smutty  face, 


Or  spaniel  rolls  his  liquid  eye, 
Or  stares  the  wiry  pet  of  Skye  — 

0  woman,  in  your  hours  of  ease 
So  shy  with  us,  so  free  with  these ! 

"  Come  on  !  I  '11  bet  you  two  to  one 

1  '11  make  him  do  it ! "     "  Will  you ! 

Done ! " 

What  was  it  who  was  bound  to  do  ? 
I  did  not  hear  and  can't  tell  you,  — 
Pray  listen  till  my  story  's  through. 

Scarce  noticed,  back  behind  the  rest, 
By  cart  and  wagon  rudely  prest, 
The  parson's  lean  and  bony  bay 
Stood  harnessed  in  his  one-horse  shay — 
Lent  to  his  sexton  for  the  day  ; 
(A  funeral  —  so  the  sexton  said  ; 
His  mother's  uncle's  wife  was  dead.) 

Like  Lazarus  bid  to  Dives'  feast, 
So  looked  the  poor  forlorn  old  beast ; 
His  coat  was  rough,  his  tail  was  bare, 
The  gray  was  sprinkled  in  his  hair ; 
Sportsmen  and  jockeys  knew  him  not 
And  yet  they  say  he  once  could  trot 
Among  the  fleetest  of  the  town, 
Till  something  cracked  and  broke  him 

down,  — 
The  steed's,   the  statesman's,   common 

lot! 

"  And  are  we  then  so  soon  forgot  ? " 
Ah  me  !     I  doubt  if  one  of  you 
Has  ever  heard  the  name  "  Old  Blue," 
Whose  fame  through  all  this  region  rung 
In  those  old  days  when  I  was  young  ! 

"  Bring  forth  the  horse  !  "  Alas  !  he 
showed 

Not  like  the  one  Mazeppa  rode  ; 

Scant-maned,  sharp-backed,  and  shaky- 
kneed, 

The  wreck  of  what  was  once  a  steed, 

Lips  thin,  eyes  hollow,  stiff  in  joints ; 


310 


ADDITIONAL  POEMS. 


Yet  not  without  his  knowing  points. 
The  sexton  laughing  in  his  sleeve, 
As  if  't  were  all  a  make-believe, 
Led  forth  the  horse,  and  as  he  laughed 
Unhitched  the  breeching  from  a  shaft, 
Unclasped  the  rusty  belt  beneath, 
Drew  forth  the  snaffle  from  his  teeth, 
Slipped  off  his  head-stall,  set  him  free 
From  strap  and  rein,  —  a  sight  to  see  ! 

So  worn,  so  lean  in  every  limb, 
It  can't  be  they  are  saddling  him  ! 
It  is  !  his  back  the  pig-skin  strides 
And  flaps  his  lank,  rheumatic  sides  ; 
With  look  of  mingled  scorn  and  mirth 
They  buckle  round  the  saddle-girth  ; 
With  horsey  wink  and  saucy  toss 
A  youngster  throws  his  leg  across, 
And  so,  his  rider  on  his  back, 
They  lead  him,  limping,  to  the  track, 
Far  up  behind  the  starting-point, 
To  limber  out  each  stiffened  joint. 

As  through  the  jeering  crowd  he  past, 
One  pitying  look  old  Hiram  cast ; 
"  Go  it,  ye  cripple,  while  ye  can  ! " 
Cried  out  unsentimental  Dan  ; 
"A  Fast-Day  dinner  for  the  crows  !  " 
Budd  Doble's  scoffing  shout  arose. 

Slowly,  as  when  the  walking-beam 
First  feels  the  gathering  head  of  steam, 
With  warning  cough  and  threatening 

wheeze 

The  stiff  old  charger  crooks  his  knees  ; 
At  first  with  cautious  step  sedate, 
As  if  he  dragged  a  coach  of  state  ; 
He  's  not  a  colt ;  he  knows  full  well 
That  time  is  weight  and  sure  to  tell ; 
No  horse  so  sturdy  but  he  fears 
The  handicap  of  twenty  years. 

As  through  the  throng  on  either  hand 
The  old  horse  nears  the  judges'  stand, 
Beneath  his  jockey's  feather-weight 
He  warms  a  little  to  his  gait, 


And  now  and  then  a  step  is  tried 
That  hints  of  something  -like  a  stride. 

"Go!"  —  Through  his  ear  the   sum- 
mons stung 

As  if  a  battle-trump  had  rung  ; 
The    slumbering    instincts    long    un- 
stirred 

Start  at  the  old  familiar  word  ; 
It  thrills  like  flame  through  every  limb — • 
What  mean  his  twenty  years  to  him  ? 
The  savage  blow  his  rider  dealt 
Fell  on  his  hollow  flanks  unfelt ; 
The  spur  that  pricked  his  staring  hide 
Unheeded  tore  his  bleeding  side  ; 
Alike  to  him  are  spur  and  rein,  — 
He  steps  a  five-year-old  again  ! 

Before  the  quarter  pole  was  past, 
Old  Hiram  said,  "  He  's  going  fast." 
Long  ere  the  quarter  was  a  half, 
The   chuckling   crowd   had   ceased   to 

laugh ; 

Tighter  his  frightened  jockey  clung 
As  in  a  mighty  stride  he  swung, 
The  gravel  flying  in  his  track, 
His  neck  stretched  out,  his  ears  laid 

back, 

His  tail  extended  all  the  while 
Behind  him  like  a  rat-tail  file  ! 
Off  went  a  shoe,  —  away  it  spun, 
Shot  like  a  bullet  from  a  gun  ; 
The  quaking  jockey  shapes  a  prayer 
From  scraps  of  oaths  he  used  to  swear  ; 
He  drops  his  whip,  he  drops  his  rein, 
He  clutches  fiercely  for  a  mane  ; 
He  '11  lose  his  hold  —  he   sways   and 

reels  — 
He  "11  slide   beneath   those   trampling 

heels ! 

The  knees  of  many  a  horseman  quake, 
The  flowers  on  many  a  bonnet  shake, 
And  shouts  arise  from  left  and  right, 
"  Stick  on  !  Stick  on !  "    "Hould  tight! 

Hould  tight ! " 


AN  APPEAL  FOR  "THE  OLD  SOUTH. 


311 


"  Cling  round  his  neck  and  don't  let 

go  — 
"  That  pace  can't  hold — there !  steady ! 

whoa ! " 

But  like  the  sable  steed  that  bore 
The  spectral  lover  of  Lenore, 
His  nostrils  snorting  foam  and  fire, 
No  stretch  his  bony  limbs  can  tire  ; 
And  now  the  stand  he  rushes  by, 
And  "  Stop  him  !  —  stop  him  !  "  is  the 

cry. 

Stand  back  !  he  's  only  just  begun  — 
He  's  having  out  three  heats  in  one  ! 

"  Don't  rush  in  front !  he  '11  smash  your 

brains ; 

But  follow  up  and  grab  the  reins  !  " 
Old  Hiram  spoke.     Dan  Pfeiffer  heard, 
And  sprang  impatient  at  the  word  ; 
Budd  Doble  started  on  his  bay, 
Old  Hiram  followed  on  his  gray, 
And  off  they  spring,  and  round  they  go, 
The  fast  ones  doing  "all  they  know." 
Look !  twice  they  follow  at  his  heels, 
As  round  the  circling  course  he  wheels, 
And  whirls  with  him  that  clinging  boy 
Like  Hector  round  the  walls  of  Troy; 
Still  on,  and  on,  the  third  time  round  ! 
They  're    tailing   off!    they  're   losing 

ground  ! 

Budd  Doble's  nag  begins  to  fail ! 
Dan  Pfeiffer's  sorrel  whisks  his  tail ! 
And  see  !  in  spite  of  whip  and  shout, 
Old  Hiram's  mare  is  giving  out ! 
Now  for  the  finish  !  at  the  turn, 
The  old  horse  —  all  the  rest  astern  — 
Comes  swinging  in,  with  easy  trot ; 
By  Jove  !  he  's  distanced  all  the  lot ! 

That  trot  no  mortal  could  explain  ; 
Some    said,     "Old    Dutchman    come 

again  ! " 
Some  took  his  time,  —  at   least   they 

tried, 
But  what  it  was  could  none  decide  ; 


One  said  he  could  n't  understand 
What  happened  to  his  second  hand  ; 
One  said  2.  10  ;  that  could  n't  be  — 
More  like  two  twenty  two  or  three ; 
Old  Hiram  settled  it  at  last ; 
"The  time  was  two  —  too  dee-vel-ish 
fast ! " 

The  parson's  horse  had  won  the  bet ; 
It  cost  him  something  of  a  sweat ; 
Back  in  the  one-horse  shay  he  went ; 
The  parson  wondered  what  it  meant, 
And  murmured,  with  a  mild  surprise 
And  pleasant  twinkle  of  the  eyes, 
"That  funeral  must  have  been  a  trick, 
Or  corpses  drive  at  double-quick  ; 
I  should  n't  wonder,  I  declare, 
If  brother  Murray  made  the  prayer  !  " 

And  this  is  all  I  have  to  say 
About  the  parson's  poor  old  bay, 
The    same    that    drew    the    one-horse 
shay. 

Moral  for  which  this  tale  is  told  : 
A  horse  can  trot,  for  all  he  's  old. 


AN  APPEAL  FOR  "THE  OLD  SOUTH." 

"While   stands    the   Coliseum,   Rome   shall 

stand ; 
When  falls  the  Coliseum,  Rome  shall  fall" 

FULL  sevenscore  years  our  city's  pride  — 

The  comely  Southern  spire  — 
Has  cast  its  shadow,  and  defied 

The  storm,  the  foe,  the  fire  ; 
Sad  is  the  sight  our  eyes  behold  ; 

"Woe  to  the  three-hilled  town, 
When   through  the   land  the    tale    is 
told— 

"  The  brave  '  Old  South '  is  down  ! " 

Let  darkness  blot  the  starless  dawn 
That  hears  our  children  tell, 


312 


ADDITIONAL  POEMS. 


"  Here  rose  the  walls,  now  wrecked  and 
gone, 

Oar  fathers  loved  so  well ; 
Here,  while  his  brethren  stood  aloof, 

The  herald's  blast  was  blown 
That  shook  St.  Stephen's  pillared  roof 

And  rocked  King  George's  throne  ! 

"  The  home-bound  wanderer  of  the  main 

Looked  from  his  deck  afar, 
To  where  the  gilded,  glittering  vane 

Shone  like  the  evening  star, 
And  pilgrim  feet  from  every  clime 

The  floor  with  reverence  trod, 
Where  holy  memories  made  sublime 

The  shrine  of  Freedom's  God  !  " 

The  darkened  skies,  alas  !  have  seen 

Our  monarch  tree  laid  low, 
And  spread  in  ruins  o'er  the  green, 

But  Nature  struck  the  blow  ; 
No  scheming  thrift  its  downfall  planned, 

It  felt  no  edge  of  steel, 
No  soulless  hireling  raised  his  hand 

The  deadly  stroke  to  deal. 

In  bridal  garlands,  pale  and  mute, 

Still  pleads  the  storied  tower  ; 
These  are  the  blossoms,  but  the  fruit 

Awaits  the  golden  shower  ; 
The  spire  still  greets  the  morning  sun,  — 

Say,  shall  it  stand  or  fall  ? 
Help,  ere  the  spoiler  has  begun  ! 

Help,  each,  and  God  help  all ! 

THE  FIRST  FAN. 

READ    AT  A    MEETING    OF    THE    BOSTON 
BRIC-1-BRAC  CLUB,  FEBRUARY  21,  1877. 

WHEN  rose  the  cry  "  Great  Pan  is  dead ! " 
And  Jove's  high  palace  closed  its  por- 
tal, 

The  fallen  gods,  before  they  fled, 
Sold  out  their  frippery  to  a,  mortal, 


"  To  whom  ? "  you  ask.     I  ask  of  you. 

The  answer  hardly  needs  suggestion  ; 
Of  course  it  was  the  Wandering  Jew,  — 

How  could  you  put  me  such  a  ques- 
tion ? 

A  purple  robe,  a  little  worn, 
The  Thunderer  deigned  himself  to 

offer ; 
The     bearded    wanderer    laughed    in 

scorn, — 
You  know  he  always  was  a  scoffer. 

"  Vife  shillins  !  't  is  a  monstrous  price  ; 
Say  two  and  six  and  further  talk 

shun." 
"Take  it,"  cried  Jove;  "we  can't  be 

nice,  — 
__  'T  would  fetch  twice  that  at  Leonard's 

auction." 

The  ice  was  broken  ;  up  they  came, 
All  sharp  for  bargains,  god  and  god- 
dess, 

Each  ready  with  the  price  to  name 
For  robe  or  head-dress,  scarf  or  bodice. 

First  Juno,  out  of  temper,  too,  — 
Her    queenly     forehead     somewhat 
cloudy  ; 

Then  Pallas  in  her  stockings  blue, 
Imposing,  but  a  little  dowdy. 

The  scowling  queen  of  heaven  unrolled 
Before  the  Jew  a  threadbare  turban  : 

"Three  shillings."    "One.    Twill  suit 

some  old 
Terrific  feminine  suburban." 

But  as  for  -Pallas,  —  how  to  tell 
In  seemly  phrase  a  fact  so  shocking  ? 

She  pointed,  —  pray  excuse  me,  —  well, 
She  pointed  to  her  azure  stocking. 

And  if  the  honest  truth  were  told, 
Its  heel  confessed  the  need  of  darning; 


THE  FIRST  FAN. 


313 


"Gods  !  "  low-bred  Vulcan  cried,  "be- 
hold ! 

There  !  that 's  what  comes  of  too  much 
laming  !  " 

Pale  Proserpine  came  groping  round, 
Her  pupils  dreadfully  dilated 

With  too  much  living  underground,  — 
A  residence  quite  overrated  ; 

"  This  kerchief 's  what  you  want,    I 

know,  — 
Don't  cheat  poor  Venus  of  her  ces- 

tus,  — 

You  '11  find  it  handy  when  you  go 
To  —  you  know  where  ;  it 's  pure  as- 
bestus." 

Then  Phoebus  of  the  silver  bow, 
And  Hebe,  dimpled  as  a  baby, 

And  Dian  with  the  breast  of  snow, 
Chaser  and  chased  —  and  caught,  it 
may  be : 

One  took  the  quiver  from  her  back, 
One  held  the  cap  he  spent  the  night 
in, 

And  one  a  bit  of  bric-cl-brac, 

Such  as  the  gods  themselves  delight  in. 

Then  Mars,  the  foe  of  human  kind, 
Strode  up  and  showed  his  suit  of  ar- 
mor ; 

So  none  at  last  was  left  behind 
Save  Venus,  the  celestial  charmer. 

Poor  Venus  !     What  had  she  to  sell  ? 

For  all  she  looked  so  fresh  and  jaunty, 
Her  wardrobe,  as  I  blush  to  tell, 

Already  seemed  but  quite  too  scanty. 

Her  gems  were  sold,  her  sandals  gone,  — 
She    always    would    be    rash    and 
flighty,  - 

Her  winter  garments  all  in  pawn, 
Alas  for  charming  Aphrodite  ! 


The  lady  of  a  thousand  loves, 
The  darling  of  the  old  religion, 

Had  only  left  of  all  the  doves 
That  drew  her  car  one  fan-tailed  pig- 
eon. 

How  oft  upon  her  finger-tips 
He  perched,  afraid  of  Cupid's  arrow, 

Or  kissed  her  on  the  rosebud  lips, 
Like  Roman  Lesbia's  loving  sparrow  ! 

"  My  bird,  I  want  your  train,"  she  cried  ; 

"  Come,  don't  let 's  have  a  fuss  about 

it; 
I  '11  make  it  beauty's  pet  and  pride, 

And  you  '11  be  better  off  witnout  it. 

"  So  vulgar  !  Have  you  noticed,  pray, 
An  earthly  belle  or  dashing  bride  walk, 

And  how  her  flounces  track  her  way, 
Like  slimy  serpents  on  the  sidewalk  ? 

"A  lover's  heart  it  quickly  cools  ; 

In  mine  it  kindles  up  enough  rage 
To  wring  their  necks.     How  can  such 
fools 

Ask  men  to  vote  for  woman  suffrage  ? " 

The  goddess  spoke,  and  gently  stripped 
Her  bird  of  every  caudal  feather  ; 

A  strand  of  gold-bright  hair  she  clipped, 
And  bound  the  glossy  plumes  together, 

And  lo,  the  Fan  !  for  beauty's  hand, 
The  lovely  queen  of  beauty  made  it ; 

The  price  she  named  was  hard  to  stand, 
But  Venus  smiled  :  the  Hebrew  paid  it. 

Jove,  Juno,  Venus,  where  are  you  ? 

Mars,    Mercury,    Phoebus,    Neptune, 

Saturn  ? 
But  o'er  the  world  the  Wandering  Jew 

Has  borne  the  Fan's  celestial  pattern. 

So  everywhere  we  find  the  Fan,  — 
In  lonely  isles  of  the  Pacific, 


314 


ADDITIONAL  POEMS. 


In  farthest  China  and  Japan,  — 
Wherever  suns  are  sudorific. 

Nay,  even  the  oily  Esquimaux 

In  summer  court  its  cooling  breezes,  — 

In  fact,  in  every  clime  't  is  so, 
No  matter  if  it  fries  or  freezes. 

And  since  from  Aphrodite's  dove 
The  pattern  of  the  fan  was  given, 

No  wonder  that  it  breathes  of  love 
And  wafts    the    perfumed    gales    of 
heaven ! 

Before  this  new  Pandora's  gift 

In  slavery  woman's  tyrant  kept  her, 

But  now  he  kneels  her  glove  to  lift,  — 
The  fan  is  mightier  than  tlie  sceptre. 

The  tap  it  gives  how  arch  and  sly  ! 
The  breath  it  wakes  how  fresh  and 

grateful ! 

Behind  its  shield  how  soft  the  sigh  ! 
The  whispered  tale  of  shame  how  fate- 
ful! 

Its  empire  shadows  every  throne 
And  every  shore  that  man  is  tost  on  ; 

It  rules  the  lords  of  every  zone, 
Nay,  even  the  bluest  blood  of  Boston  ! 

But  every  one  that  swings  to-night, 
Of  fairest  shape,  from  farthest  region, 

May  trace  its  pedigree  aright 
To  Aphrodite's  fan-tailed  pigeon. 


TO  R.  B.  H. 

AT    THE    DINNER    TO    THE    PRESIDENT, 
BOSTON,   JUNE  26,  1877. 

How  to  address  him  ?  awkward,  it  is 

true  : 
Call  him  "Great  Father,"  as  the  Red 

Men  do  ? 
Borrow  some  title  ?  this  is  not  the  place 


That  christens  men  Your  Highness  and 

Your  Grace  ; 
We  tried  such  names  as  these  awhile, 

you  know, 
But  left  them  off  a  century  ago. 

His  Majesty  ?     We  've  had  enough  of 

that: 
Besides,  that  needs  a  crown  ;  he  wears 

a  hat. 

What  if,  to  make  the  nicer  ears  content, 
We  say  His  Honesty,  the  President  ? 

Sir,  we  believed  you  honest,  truthful, 

brave, 
When  to  your  hands  their  precious  trust 

we  gave, 
And  we  have  found  you  better  than  we 

knew, 
Braver,   and  not  less  honest,  not  less 

true  ! 

So  every  heart  has  opened,  every  hand 
Tingles  with  welcome,  and  through  all 

the  land 

All  voices  greet  you  in  one  broad  acclaim, 
Healer  of  strife  !     Has  earth  a  nobler 

name  ? 

What  phrases  mean  you  do  not  need  to 

learn  ; 
We  must  be  civil  and  they  serve  our 

turn  : 
"Your  most  obedient  humble"  means 

—  means  what  ? 
Something  the  well-bred  signer  just  is 

not. 

Yet  there  are  tokens,  sir,  you  must  be- 
lieve ; 

There  is  one  language  never  can  deceive : 
The  lover  knew  it  when   the  maiden 

smiled ; 
The  mother  knows  it  when  she  clasps 

her  child ; 
Voices  may  falter,  trembling  lips  turn 

pale, 


THE   SHIP   OF   STATE. 


A  FAMILY  RECORD. 


315 


Words  grope  and  stumble ;  this  will  tell 
their  tale 

Shorn  of  all  rhetoric,  bare  of  all  pretence, 

But  radiant,  warm,  with  Nature's  elo- 
quence. 

Look  in  our  eyes  !  Your  welcome  waits 
you  there,  — 

North,  South,  East,  West,  from  all  and 
everywhere ! 


"THE  SHIP  OF  STATE." 

A  SENTIMENT. 

THE  Ship  of  State  !  above  her  skies  are 

blue, 

But  still  she  rocks  a  little,  it  is  true, 
And  there  are  passengers  whose  faces 

white 
Show  they  don't  feel  as  happy  as  they 

might ; 
Yet  on  the  whole  her  crew  are  quite 

content, 
Since  its  wild  fury  the  typhoon  has 

spent, 

And  willing,  if  her  pilot  thinks  it  best, 
To  head  a  little  nearer  south  by  west. 
And  this  they  feel :  the  ship  came  too 

near  wreck, 

In  the  long  quarrel  for  the   quarter- 
deck, 
Now  when  she  glides  serenely  on  her 

way, 

—  The  shallows  past  where  dread  explo- 
sives lay,  — 
The  stiff  obstructive's  churlish  game  to 

try: 
Let  sleeping  dogs  and  still  torpedoes 

lie  ! 

And  so  I  give  you  all  the  Ship  of  State  ; 
Freedom's  last  venture  is  her  priceless 

freight  ; 
God  speed  her,  keep  her,  bless  her,  while 

she  steers 
Amid  the  breakers  of  unsounded  years  ; 


Lead  her  through  danger's  paths  with 

even  keel, 
And  guide  the  honest  hand  that  holds 

her  wheel ! 
WOODSTOCK,  CONN.,  July  4,  1877. 


A  FAMILY  RECORD. 

WOODSTOCK,    CONN.,   JULY  4,  1877. 

NOT  to  myself  this  breath  of  vesper 
song, 

Not  to  these  patient  friends,  this  kindly 
throng, 

Not  to  this  hallowed  morning,  though 
it  be 

Our  summer  Christmas,  Freedom's  ju- 
bilee, 

When  every  summit,  topmast,  steeple, 
tower, 

That  owns  her  empire  spreads  her  starry 
flower, 

Its  blood-streaked    leaves  in   heaven's 
benignant  dew 

Washed  clean  from  every  crimson  stain 
they  knew  — 

No,  not  to  these  the  passing  thrills  be- 
long 

That  steal  my  breath  to  hush  them- 
selves with  song. 

These  moments  all  are  memory's  ;  I 
have  come 

To  speak  with  lips  that  rather  should 
be  dumb  ; 

For  what  are  words  ?    At  every  step  I 
tread 

The  dust  that  wore  the  footprints  of  the 
dead 

But  for  whose  life  my  life  had  never 
known 

This  faded  vesture  which  it  calls  its  own. 

Here  sleeps  my  father's  sire,  and  they 
who  gave 

That  earlier  life  here  found  their  peace- 
ful grave. 


316 


ADDITIONAL  POEMS. 


In  days  gone  by  I  sought  the  hallowed 
ground  ; 

Climbed  yon  long  slope  ;  the  sacred  spot 
I  found 

Where  all  unsullied  lies  the  winter  snow, 

Where  all  ungathered  Spring's  pale  vio- 
lets blow, 

And  tracked  from  stone  to  stone  the 
Saxon  name 

That  marks  the  blood  I  need  not  blush 
to  claim, 

Blood  such  as  wanned  the  Pilgrim  sons 
of  toil, 

Who  held  from  God  the  charter  of  the 

soil. 

I  come  an   alien  to  your  hills  and 
plains, 

Yet  feel  your  birthright  tingling  in  my 
veins  ; 

Mine  are  this  changing  prospect's  sun 
and  shade, 

In  full-blown  summer's   bridal    pomp 
arrayed ; 

Mine  these  fair  hillsides  and  the  vales 
between  ; 

Mine  the  sweet  streams  that  lend  their 
brightening  green  ; 

I  breathed  your  air  —  the  sunlit  land- 
scape smiled  ; 

I  touch  your  soil  —  it  knows  its  chil- 
dren's child ; 

Throned  in  my  heart  your  heritage  is 
mine  ; 

I  claim  it  all  by  memory's  right  divine ! 
Waking,  I  dream.    Before  my  vacant 
eyes 

In  long  procession  shadowy  forms  arise  ; 

Far  through  the  vista  of  the  silent  years 

I  see  a  venturous  band  ;  the  pioneers, 

Who  let  the  sunlight  through  the  for- 
est's gloom, 

Who  bade  the  harvest  wave,  the  garden 
bloom. 

Hark !  loud    resounds  the  bare-armed 
settler's  axe,  — 


See  where  the  stealthy  panther  left  his 
tracks  ! 

As  fierce,  as  stealthy  creeps  the  skulk- 
ing foe 

With  stone  -  tipped  shaft  and  sinew- 
corded  bow ; 

Soon  shall  he  vanish  from  his  ancient 
reign, 

Leave  his  last  cornfield  to  the  coming 
train, 

Quit  the  green  margin  of  the  wave  he 
drinks, 

For  haunts  that  hide  the  wild-cat  and 
the  lynx. 

But  who  the  Youth  his  glistening  axe 

that  swings 
To  smite  the  pine  that  shows  a  hundred 

rings  ? 
His  features  ?  —  something  in  his  look 

I  find 


mind. 
His  name  ?  —  my  own  ;  and  that  which 

goes  before 
The  same  that  once  the  loved  disciple 

bore. 

Young,  brave,  discreet,  the  father  of  a  line 
Whose  voiceless  lives  have  found  a  voice 

in  mine ; 
Thinned  by  unnumbered  currents  though 

they  be, 
Thanks  for  the  ruddy  drops  I  claim  from 

thee! 

The  seasons  pass  ;  the  roses  come  and 

go; 
Snows  fall  and  melt ;  the  waters  freeze 

and  flow ; 
The  boys  are  men  ;  the  girls,  grown  tall 

and  fair, 
Have  found  their  mates ;  a  gravestone 

here  and  there 
Tells  where  the  fathers  lie  ;  the  silvered 

hair 


A  FAMILY  RECORD. 


317 


Of  some  bent  patriarch  yet  recalls  the 

time 
That  saw  his  feet  the  northern  hillside 

climb, 

A  pilgrim  from  the  pilgrims  far  away, 
The  godly  men,  the  dwellers  by  the 

bay. 

On  many  a  hearthstone  burns  the  cheer- 
ful fire  ; 
The  schoolhouse  porch,  the  heavenward 

pointing  spire 

Proclaim  in  letters  every  eye  can  read, 
Knowledge  and  Faith,  the  new  world's 

simple  creed. 

Hush !   't  is    the    Sabbath's    silence- 
stricken  morn  : 
No  feet  must  wander  through  the  tas- 

selled  corn  ; 
No  inerry  children  laugh  around  the 

door, 
No  idle  playthings  strew  the   sanded 

floor; 

The  law  of  Moses  lays  its  awful  ban 
On  all  that  stirs ;  here  comes  the  tith- 

ing-man  ! 
At  last  the  solemn  hour  of  worship 

calls ; 

Slowly  they  gather  in  the  sacred  walls ; 
Man    in    his    strength    and  age   with 

knotted  staff, 
And  boyhood  aching  for  its  week-day 

laugh, 
The  toil-worn  mother  with  the  child 

she  leads, 
The    maiden,    lovely    in    her    golden 

beads,  — 
The  popish  symbols  round  her  neck  she 

wears, 
But  on  them  counts  her  lovers,  not  her 

prayers,  — 
Those  youths  in  homespun   suits   and 

ribboned  queues, 

Whose  hearts  are  beating  in  the  high- 
backed  pews. 
The  pastor  rises  ;  looks  along  the  seats 


With  searching  eye  ;  each  wonted  face 
he  meets  ; 

Asks  heavenly  guidance ;  finds  the  chap- 
ter's place 

That  tells  some  tale  of  Israel's  stubborn 
race ; 

Gives  otit  the  sacred  song;  afl  roices 
join, 

For  no  quartette   extorts  their  scanty 


Then  while   both  hands  their    black- 
gloved  palms  display, 

Lifts  his  gray  head,  and  murmurs  "  Let 

us  pray ! " 

And  pray  he  does  !  as  one  that  never 
fears 

To  plead  unanswered  by  the  God  that 
hears  ; 

What  if  he  dwells  on  many  a  fact  as 
though 

Some  things  Heaven  knew  not  which  it 
ought  to  know,  — 

Thanks  God  for  all  His  favors  past,  and 

yet, 

Tells  Him  there 's  something  He  must 

not  forget ; 
Such  are  the  prayers  his  people  love  to 

hear,  — 
See  how  the  Deacon  slants  his  listening 

ear ! 
What  !  look  once  more  !   Nay,  surely 

there  I  trace 
The   hinted   outlines  of  a  well-known 

face! 

Not  those  the  lips  for  laughter  to  beguile, 
Yet  round  their  corners  lurks  an  embryo 

smile, 
The  same  on  other  lips  my  childhood 

knew 
That  scarce  the  Sabbath's  mastery  could 

subdue. 
Him  too  my  lineage  gives  me  leave  to 

claim,  — 
The  good,   grave  man   that  bears  the 

Psalmist's  name. 


318 


ADDITIONAL   POEMS. 


And  still  in  ceaseless  round  the  sea- 
sous  passed  ; 
Spring  piped  her  carol ;  Autumn  blew 

his  blast ; 
Babes  waxed  to  manhood ;    manhood 

shrunk  to  age  ; 
Life's  worn-out  players  tottered  off  the 

stage  ; 
The  few  are  many  ;  boys  have  grown  to 

men 
Since  Putnam  dragged  the  wolf  from 

Pomfret's  den  ; 
Our  new-old  Woodstock  is  a  thriving 

town  ; 
Brave  are  her  children  ;  faithful  to  the 

crown  ; 
Her  soldiers'  steel  the  savage  redskin 

knows ; 
Their  blood  has  crimsoned  his  Canadian 

snows. 

And  now  once  more  along  the  quiet  vale 
Rings  the   dread  call   that  turns    the 

mothers  pale  ; 
Full  well  they  know  the  valorous  heat 

that  runs 

In  every  pulse-beat  of  their  loyal  sons ; 
Who  would  riot   bleed   in   good   King 

George's  cause 
When  England's  lion  shows  his  teeth 

and  claws  ? 
With  glittering  firelocks  on  the  vil- 


In  proud  array  a  martial  band  is  seen  ; 

You  know  what  names  those  ancient 
rosters  hold,  — 

Whose  belts  were  buckled  when  the 
drum-beat  rolled,  — 

But  mark  their  Captain  !  tell  us,  who 
is  he  ? 

On  his  brown  face  that  same  old  look  I 
see  ! 

Yes !  from  the  homestead's  still  retreat 
he  came, 

Whose  peaceful  owner  bore  the  Psalm- 
ist's name ; 


The  same  his  own.     Well,  Israel's  glo- 
rious king 

Who  struck  the  harp  could  also  whirl 
the  sling,  — 

Breathe  in  his  song  a  penitential  sigh 

And  smite  the  sons  of  Amalek  hip  and 
thigh  : 

These  shared  their  task  ;  one  deaconed 
out  the  psalm, 

One  slashed  the  scalping  hell-hounds  of 
Montcalm ; 

The  praying  father's  pious  work  is  done, 

Now  sword  in   hand   steps  forth  the 

fighting  son. 
On  many  a  field  he  fought  in  wilds 


See  on  his  swarthy  cheek  the  bullet's 

scar! 
There  hangs  a  murderous  tomahawk  ; 

beneath, 
Without  its  blade,  a  knife's  embroidered 

sheath  ; 
Save  for  the  stroke  his  trusty  weapon 

dealt 
His  scalp  had  dangled  at  their  owner's 

belt; 

But  not  for  him  such  fate  ;  he  lived  to  see 
The  bloodier  strife  that  made  our  nation 

free, 
To  serve  with  willing  toil,  with  skilful 

hand, 
The  war-worn  saviors  of  the  bleeding 

land. 
His  wasting  life   to  others'   needs  he 

gave,  — 
Sought  rest  in  home  and  found  it  in  the 

grave. 
See  where  the  stones  life's  brief  memo- 

rials keep, 
The  tablet  telling  where  he  "fell  on 


Watched  by  a  winged  cherub's  rayless 

eye,  — 
A  scroll  above  that  says  we  all  must 

die,  — 


A  FAMILY  RECORD. 


319 


Those  saddening  lines  beneath,  the 
"  Night-Thoughts  "  lent : 

So  stands  the  Soldier's,  Surgeon's  monu- 
ment. 

Ah  !  at  a  glance  my  filial  eye  divines 

The  scholar  son  in  those  remembered 
lines. 

The  Scholar  Son.  His  hand  my  foot- 
steps led. 

No  more  the  dim  unreal  past  I  tread. 

0  thou  whose  breathing  form  was  once 
so  dear, 

Whose  cheering  voice  was  music  to  my 
ear, 

Art  thou  not  with  me  as  my  feet  pursue 

The  village  paths  so  well  thy  boyhood 
knew, 

Along  the  tangled  margin  of  the  stream 
.  Whose  murmurs  blended  with  thine  in- 
fant dream, 

Or  climb  the  hill,  or  thread  the  wooded 
vale, 

Or  seek  the  wave  where  gleams  yon  dis- 
tant sail, 

Or  the  old  homestead's  narrowed  bounds 
explore, 

Where  sloped  the  roof  that  sheds  the 
rains  no  more, 

Where  one  last  relic  still  remains  to  tell 

Here  stood  thy  home,  —  the  memory- 
haunted  well, 

Whose  waters  quench  a  deeper  thirst 
than  thine, 

Changed  at  my  lips  to  sacramental 
wine,  — 


Art  thou  not  with  me,  as  I  fondly  trace 

The  scanty  records  of  thine  honored 
race, 

Call  up  the  forms  that  earlier  years  have 
known, 

And  spell  the  legend  of  each  slanted 

stone  ? 

With  thoughts   of   thee   my  loving 
verse  began, 

Not  for  the  critic's  curious  eye  to  scan, 

Not  for  the  many  listeners,   but  the 
few 

Whose  fathers  trod  the  paths  my  fathers 
knew ; 

Still  in  my  heart  thy  loved  remembrance 
burns ; 

Still  to  my  lips  thy  cherished  name  re- 
turns ; 

Could  I  but  feel  thy  gracious  presence 
near 

Amid  the  groves  that  once  to  thee  were 
dear! 

Could  but  my  trembling  lips  with  mor- 
tal speech 

Thy  listening  ear  for  one  brief  moment 
reach ! 

How  vain  the  dream !     The  pallid  voy- 
ager's track 

No  sign  betrays ;  he  sends  no  message 
back. 

No  word    from    thee    since    evening's 
shadow  fell 

On  thy  cold  forehead  with  my  long 
farewell,  — 

Now  from  the  margin  of  the  silent  sea, 

Take  my  last  offering  ere  I  cross  to  thee  1 


FIRST    VERSES. 

PHILLIPS  ACADEMY,  ANDOVER,   MASS.,   1824  OB  1825. 

TRANSLATION    FROM    THE   /ENEID,- Book  1.1 

THE  god  looked  out  upon  the  troubled  deep 
Waked  into  tumult  from  its  placid  sleep  ; 
The  flame  of  anger  kindles  in  his  eye 
'  As  the  wild  waves  ascend  the  lowering  sky ; 
He  lifts  his  head  above  their  awful  height 
And  to  the  distant  fleet  directs  his  sight, 
Now  borne  aloft  upon  the  billow's  crest, 
Struck  by  the  bolt  or  by  the  winds  oppressed, 
And  well  he  knew  that  Juno's  vengeful  ire 
Frowned  from  those  clouds  and  sparkled  in  that  fire. 
On  rapid  pinions  as  they  whistled  by 
He  calls  swift  Zephyrus  and  Eurus  nigh : 
Is  this  your  glory  in  a  noble  line 
To  leave  your  confines  and  to  ravage  mine  ? 
Whom  I  —  but  let  these  troubled  waves  subside  — 
Another  tempest  and  I  '11  quell  your  pride  ! 
Go  —  bear  our  message  to  your  master's  ear, 
That  wide  as  ocean  I  am  despot  here  ; 
Let  him  sit  monarch  in  his  barren  caves, 
I  wield  the  trident  and  control  the  waves  ! 

He  said,  and  as  the  gathered  vapors  break 
The  swelling  ocean  seemed  a  peaceful  lake  ; 
To  lift  their  ships  the  graceful  nymphs  essayed 
And  the  strong  trident  lent  its  powerful  aid  ; 
The  dangerous  banks  are  sunk  beneath  the  main, 
And  the  light  chariot  skims  the  unruffled  plain. 
As  when  sedition  fires  the  public  mind, 
And  maddening  fury  leads  the  rabble  blind, 
The  blazing  torch  lights  up  the  dread  alarm, 
Rage  points  the  steel  and  fury  nerves  the  arm, 
Then,  if  some  reverend  sage  appear  in  sight, 
They  stand  —  they  gaze,  and  check  their  headlong  flight,  - 
He  turns  the  current  of  each  wandering  breast 
And  hushes  every  passion  into  rest,  — 
Thus  by  the  power  of  his  imperial  arm 
The  boiling  ocean  trembled  into  calm  ; 
With  flowing  reins  the  father  sped  his  way 
And  smiled  serene  upon  rekindled  day. 


THE  IRON   GATE, 

AND  OTHER  POEMS. 


THE   IRON    GATE. 

READ  AT  THE  BREAKFAST  GIVEN  IN 
HOXOR  OF  DR.  HOLMES'S  SEVENTIETH 
BIRTHDAY  BY  THE  PUBLISHERS  OF 
THE  ATLANTIC  MONTHLY,  BOSTON, 
DECEMBER  3,  1879. 

WHERE  is  this  patriarch  you  are  kindly 

greeting  ? 

Not  unfamiliar  to  my  ear  his  name, 
Nor  yet   unknown  to  many  a  joyous 

meeting 

In  days  long  vanished,  —  is  he  still 
the  same, 

Or  changed  by  years,  forgotten  and  for- 
getting, 
Dull -eared,    dim -sighted,    slow    of 

speech  and  thought, 
Still  o'er  the  sad,  degenerate  present 

fretting, 

Where  all  goes  wrong,  and  nothing 
as  it  ought  ? 

Old  age,  the  graybeard  !     Well,  indeed, 

I"fenow  him,  — 
Shrunk,  tottering,  bent,  of  aches  and 

ills  the  prey ; 

In  sermon,  story,  fable,  picture,  poem, 
Oft  have  I  met  him  from  my  earliest 
day  : 

In  my  old  ^Esop,  toiling  with  his  bun- 
dle,— 

His  load  of  sticks,  —  politely  asking 
Death 

21 


Who  comes  when  called  for,  —  would 

he  lug  or  trundle 

His  fagot  for  him  1  —  he  was  scant  of 
breath. 

And  sad  "  Ecclesiastes,  or  the  Preach- 
er," — 
Has  he  not  stamped  the  image  on  my 

soul, 

In  that  last  chapter,  where  the  worn- 
out  Teacher 

Sighs    o'er    the    loosened   cord,   tho 
broken  bowl  ? 

Yes,  long,  indeed,  I  've  known  him  at  a 

distance, 
And  now  my  lifted  door-latch  shows 

him  here ; 

I  take  his  shrivelled  hand  without  re- 
sistance, 

And  find  him  smiling  as  his  step  draws 
near. 

What  though  of  gilded  baubles  he  be- 
reaves us, 

Dear  to  the  heart  of  youth,  to  man- 
hood's prime ; 
Think  of  the  calm  he  brings,  the  wealth 

he  leaves  us, 

The   hoarded  spoils,  the  legacies  of 
time ! 

Altars  once  flaming,  still  with  incense 

fragrant, 

Passion's    uneasy    nurslings    rocked 
asleep, 


322 


THE   IRON  GATE,   AND   OTHER   POEMS. 


Hope's  anchor  faster,  wild  desire  less 

vagrant, 

Life's  flow  less  noisy,  but  the  stream 
how  deep ! 

Still  as  the  silver  cord  gets  worn  and 

slender, 

Its  lightened  task-work  tugs  with  les- 
sening strain, 
Hands  get  more  helpful,  voices,  grown 

more  tender, 

Soothe  with  their  softened  tones  the 
slumberous  brain. 

Youth  longs  and  manhood  strives,  but 

age  remembers, 
Sits   by   the  raked-up  ashes  of   the 

past, 

Spreads  its  thin  hands  above  the  whiten- 
ing embers 

That  warm  its  creeping  life-blood  till 
the  last. 

Dear  to  its  heart  is  every  loving  token 
That  comes  unbidden   ere  its  pulse 

grows  cold, 
Ere  the  last  lingering  ties  of  life  are 

broken, 
Its  labors  ended  and  its  story  told. 

Ah,  while   around  us   rosy  youth   re- 
joices, 
For    us    the    sorrow-laden    breezes 

sigh, 
And  through  the  chorus  of  its  jocund 

voices 

Throbs  the  sharp  note  of  misery's 
hopeless  cry. 

As  on   the  gauzy  wings  of  fancy  fly- 
ing 
From  some  far  orb  I  track  our  watery 

sphere, 
Home    of    the    straggling,    suffering, 

doubting,  dying, 

The  silvered  globule  seems  a  glisten- 
ing tear. 


But  Nature  lends  her  mirror  of  illusion 
To  win  from  saddening  scenes  our 

age-dimmed  eyes, 
And  misty  day-dreams  blend  in  sweet 

confusion 

The  wintry  landscape  and  the  sum- 
mer skies. 

So  when  the  iron  portal  shuts  behind 

us, 
And  life  forgets  us  in  its  noise  and 

whirl, 

Visions  that  shunned  the  glaring  noon- 
day find  us, 

And  glimmering  starlight  shows  the 
gates  of  pearl. 

—  I  come  not  here  your  morning  hour 

to  sadden, 
A   limping  pilgrim,  leaning  on   his 

staff,  — 
I,  who  have  never  deemed   it   sin   to 

gladden 

This  vale  of  sorrows  with  a  whole- 
some laugh. 

If  word  of  mine  another's  gloom  has 

brightened, 

Through  my  dumb  lips  the  heaven- 
sent message  came ; 

If  hand  of  mine  another's  task  has  light- 
ened, 

It  felt  the  guidance  that  it  dares  not 
claim. 

But,  0  my  gentle  sisters,  O  my  brothers, 
These  thick-sown  snow-flakes  hint  of 

toil's  release ; 
These  feebler  pulses  bid  me  leave  to 

others 

The  tasks    once  welcome ;    evening 
asks  for  peace. 

Time  claims  his  tribute  ;  silence  now  is 

golden ; 

Let  me  not  vex  the  too  long  suffering 
lyre; 


VESTIGIA    QUINQUE   RETBORSUM. 


323 


Though  to  your  love  untiring  still  be- 
holden, 

The  curfew  tells  me  —  cover  up  the 
fire. 

And  now  with  grateful  smile  and  ac- 
cents cheerful, 
And  warmer  heart  than  look  or  word 

can  tell, 
In  simplest  phrase  —  these    traitorous 

eyes  are  tearful  — 
Thanks,  Brothers,  Sisters  —  Children 
—  and  farewell ! 


VESTIGIA   QUINQUE   RETROR- 
SUM. 

AN   ACADEMIC   POEM.1 

1829-1879. 

WHILE  fond,  sad  memories  all  around 

us  throng 
Silence  were  sweeter  than  the  sweetest 

song; 
Yet  when    the    leaves  are  green  and 

heaven  is  blue, 

The  choral  tribute  of  the  grove  is  due, 
And  when  the  lengthening  nights  have 

chilled  the  skies, 
We  fain  would  hear  the  song-bird  ere 

he  flies, 
And  greet  with  kindly  welcome,  even 

as  now, 
The  lonely  minstrel  on  his  leafless  bough. 

This  is  our  golden  year,  —  its  golden 

day ; 
Its  bridal    memories   soon    must   pass 

away, 

Soon  shall  its  dying  music  cease  to  ring 
And  every  year  must  loose  some  silver 

string, 
Till  the  last  trembling  chords  no  longer 

thrill,  — 
Hands  all  at  rest  and  hearts  forever  still. 

1  Read  at  the  Commencement  Dinner  of  the 
Alumni  of  Harvard  University,  June  25, 1379. 


A  few  gray  heads  have  joined   the 

forming  line ; 
We    hear   our  summons,  —  "  Class  of 

'twenty-nine  !  " 
Close  on  the  foremost,  and,  Alas,  how 

few! 
Are  these  "  The  Boys "  our  dear  old 

Mother  knew  ? 
Sixty     brave    swimmers.      Twenty  — 

something  more  — 
Have  passed  the  stream  and  reached 

this  frosty  shore ! 

How  near  the  banks  these  fifty  years 
divide 

When  memory  crosses  with  a  single 
stride ! 

'T  is  the  first  year  of  stern  "  Old  Hick- 
ory "  's  rule 

When  our  good  Mother  lets  us  out  of 
school, 

Half  glad,  half  sorrowing,  it  must  be 
confessed, 

To  leave  her  quiet  lap,  her  bounteous 
breast, 

Armed  with  our  dainty,  ribbon-tied  de- 
grees, 

Pleased  and  yet    pensive,   exiles    and 


Look  back,  O  comrades,  with  your 
faded  eyes, 

And  see  the  phantoms  as  I  bid  them 
rise. 

Whose  smile  is  that  ?  Its  pattern  Na- 
ture gave, 

A  sunbeam  dancing  in  a  dimpled  wave ; 

KIRKLAND  alone  such  grace  from 
Heaven  could  win, 

His  features  radiant  as  the  soul  with- 
in ; 

That  smile  would  let  him  through  Saint 
Peter's  gate 

While  sad-eyed  martyrs  had  to  stand 
and  wait. 

Here  flits  mercurial  Farrar ;  standing 
there, 


324 


THE   IRON   GATE,   AND   OTHER   POEMS. 


See  mild,  benignant,  cautious,  learned 


And    sturdy,   patient,  faithful,   honest 

Hedge, 
Whose  grinding  logic  gave  our  wits  their 

edge; 
Ticknor,  with  honeyed  voice  and  courtly 

grace ; 
And    Willard  larynxed  like  a  double 

bass; 
And  Channing  with  his  bland,  superior 

look, 

Cool  as  a  moonbeam  on  a  frozen  brook, 
While  the  pale  student,  shivering  in  his 

shoes, 
Sees  from  his  theme  the  turgid  rhetoric 

ooze ; 
And  the  born  soldier,  fate  decreed  to 

wreak 
His  martial   manhood    on    a   class  in 

Greek, 

Popkin .'    How  that  explosive  name  re- 
calls 
The  grand  old  Busby  of  our  ancient 

halls ! 
Such  faces  looked  from  Skippon's  grim 

platoons, 
Such  figures  rode  with  Ireton's  stout 

dragoons ; 

He  gave  his  strength  to  learning's  gen- 
tle charms, 
But  every  accent  sounded  "  Shoulder 

arms ! " 

Names,  —  empty  names  ?    Save  only 

here  and  there 
Some  white-haired   listener,   dozing  in 

his  chair, 
Starts  at   the  sound  he  often   used  to 

hear, 
And  upward  slants  his  Sunday-sermon 


And  we  —  our  blooming  manhood  we 

regain ; 

Smiling  we  join  the  long  Commence- 
ment train, 


One   point   first    battled   in   discussion 

hot, — 
Shall  we  wear  gowns  ?  and  settled  :   We 

will  not. 
How  strange  the   scene,  —  that    noisy 

boy-debate 
Where  embryo-speakers  learn  to   rule 

the  State! 
This  broad-browed   youth,1  sedate  and 

sober-eyed, 
Shall  wear  the  ermined  robe  at  Taney's 

side; 
And  he,  the  stripling,2  smooth  of  face 

and  slight, 
Whose  slender  form   scarce   intercepts 

the  light, 
Shall   rule   the   Bench  where   Parsons 

gave  the  law, 
And  sphynx-like  sat  uncouth,  majestic 

Shaw  ! 

Ah,  many  a  star  has  shed  its  fatal  ray 
On  names  we   loved  —  our  brothers  — 

where  are  they? 
Nor  these  alone;  our  hearts  in  silence 

claim 
Names  not  less   dear,   unsyllabled    by 

fame. 

How  brief  the  space !  and  yet  it  sweeps 

us  back 
Far,  far  along  our  new-born  history's 

track ! 
Five  strides  like    this  ;  —  the   Sachem 

rules  the  land  ; 
The  Indian  wigwams  cluster  where  we 

stand. 

The  second.  —  Lo !  a  scene  of  deadly 

strife  — 

A  nation  struggling  into  infant  life ; 
Not  yet  the  fatal  game  at  Yorktown 

won 
Where  falling  Empire  fired  its  sunset 

gun. 


1  Benjamin  Robbins  Curtis. 
:  George  Tyler  Bigelow. 


VESTIGIA  QUINQUE   RETRORSUM. 


325 


LANG  DON  sits  restless  in  the  ancient 
chair,  — 

Harvard's  grave  Head,  —  these  echoes 
heard  his  prayer 

When  from  yon  mansion,  dear  to  mem- 
ory still, 

The  banded  yeomen  marched  for  Bun- 
ker's Hill. 

Count  on  the  grave  triennial's  thick- 
starred  roll 

What  names  were  numbered  on  the 
lengthening  scroll  — 

Not  unfamiliar  in  our  ears  they  ring  — 

Winthrop,  Hale,  Eliot,  Everett,  Dexter, 
Tyng. 

Another  stride.  Once  more  at  'twenty- 
nine,  — 
GOD  SAVE  KING  GEORGE,  the  Second 

of  his  line ! 
And  is   Sir  Isaac  living?      Nay,  not 

so, — 
He  followed  Flamsteed  two  short  years 

ago,— 
And  what  about  the  little  hump-backed 

man 
Who  pleased  the  bygone  days  of  good 

Queen  Anne  1 
What,  Pope  ?   another  book  he  's  just 

put  out  — 
"  The  Dunciad  "  —  witty,  but  profane, 

no  doubt. 
Where 's  Cotton  Mather  ?  he  was  always 

here.  — 
And  so  he  would  be,  but  he  died  last 

year. 
Who  is  this  preacher  our  Northampton 

claims, 
Whose  rhetoric  blazes  with  sulphureous 

flames 
And    torches    stolen    from    Tartarean 

mines  ? 

Edwards,  the  salamander  of  divines. 
A  deep,  strong  nature,  pure  and  unde- 

filed; 

Faith,  firm  as  his  who  stabbed  his  sleep- 
ing child ; 


Alas  for  him  who  blindly  strays  apart 
And  seeking  God  has  lost  his  human 

heart ! 
Fall  where  they  might,  no  flying  cinders 

caught 
These  sober  halls  where  WADSWORTH 

ruled  and  taught. 

One  footstep  more ;  the  fourth  reced- 
ing stride 

Leaves  the  round  century  on  the  nearer 
side. 

GOD  SAVE  KING  CHARLES  !  God 
knows  that  pleasant  knave 

Hia  grace  will  find  it  hard  enough  to 
save. 

Ten  years  and  more,  and  now  tho 
Plague,  the  Fire, 

Talk  of  all  tongues,  at  last  begin  to 
tire; 

One  fear  prevails,  all  other  frights  for- 
got,— 

White  lips  are  whispering,  —  hark  ! 
The  popish  Plot ! 

Happy  New  England,  from  such  trou- 
bles free 

In  health  and  peace  beyond  the  stormy 
sea ! 

No  Romish  daggers  threat  her  chil- 
dren's throats, 

No  gibbering  nightmare  mutters  "  Titus 
Oates ; " 

Philip  is  slain,  the  Quaker  graves  are 
green, 

Not  yet  the  witch  has  entered  on  the 
scene ; 

Happy  our  Harvard  ;  pleased  her  grad- 
uates four ; 

URIAN  OAKES  the  name  their  parch- 
ments bore. 

Two  centuries  past,  our  hurried  feet 

arrive 

At  the  last  footprint  of  the  scanty  five ; 
Take  the  fifth  stride;    our  wandering 

eyes  explore 
A  tangled  forest  on  a  trackless  shore ; 


326 


THE  IRON   GATE,   AND   OTHER   POEMS. 


Here,  where  we  stand,  the  savage  sor- 
cerer howls, 

The  wild  cat  snarls,  the  stealthy  gray 
wolf  prowls, 

The  slouching  bear,  perchance  the  tramp- 
ling moose 

Starts  the  brown  squaw  and  scares  her 
red  pappoose  ; 

At  every  step  the  lurking  foe  is  near  ; 

His  Demons  reign  ;  God  has  no  temple 
here! 

Lift  up  your  eyes !  behold  these  pic- 
tured walls ; 

Look  where  the  flood  of  western  glory 
falls 

Through  the  great  sunflower  disk  of 
blazing  panes 

In  ruby,  saffron,  azure,  emerald  stains ; 

With  reverent  step  the  marble  pavement 
tread 

Where  our  proud  Mother's  martyr-roll 
is  read ; 

See  the  great  halls  that  cluster,  gather- 
ing round 

This  lofty  shrine  with  holiest  memories 
crowned ; 

See  the  fair  Matron  in  her  summer 
bower; 

Fresh  as  a  rose  in  bright  perennial 
flower ; 

Read  on  her  standard,  always  in  the 
van, 

"  TRUTH,"  —  the  one  word  that  makes 
a  slave  a  man  ; 

Think  whose  the  hands  that  fed  her 
altar-fires, 

Then  count  the  debt  we  owe  our  scholar- 
sires  ! 

Brothers,  farewell !  the  fast  declining 
ray 

Fades  to  the  twilight  of  our  golden  day  ; 

Some  lesson  yet  our  wearied  brains  may 
learn, 

Some  leaves,  perhaps,  in  life's  thin  vol- 
ume turn. 


How  few  they  seem  as  in  our  waning 
age 

We  count  them  backwards  to  the  title- 
page! 

Oh  let  us  trust  with  holy  men  of  old 

Not  all  the  story  here  begun  is  told  ; 

So  the  tired  spirit,  waiting  to  be  freed, 

On  life's  last  leaf  with  tranquil  eye  shall 
read 

By  the  pale  glimmer  of  the  torch  re- 
versed, 

Not  Finis,  but  The  End  of  Volume 
First ! 


MY  AVIARY. 

THROUGH   my  north   window,   in    the 

wintry  weather,  — 
My  airy  oriel  on  the  river  shore,  — 
I  watch  the  sea-fowl  as  they  flock  to- 
gether 

Where  late  the  boatman  flashed  his 
dripping  oar. 

The  gull,  high  floating,  like  a  sloop  un- 
laden, 
Lets  the  loose  water  waft  him  as  it 

will; 
The  duck,  round-breasted  as  a  rustic 

maiden, 
Paddles  and  plunges,  busy,  busy  still. 

I  see  the  solemn  gulls  in  council  sit- 
ting 
On  some  broad  ice-floe,  pondering  long 

and  late, 
While  overhead  the  home-bound  ducks 

are  flitting, 

And  leave  the  tardy  conclave  in  de- 
bate, 

Those  weighty  questions  in  their  breasts 

revolving 

Whose  deeper  meaning  science  nevef 
learns, 


MY  AVIARY. 


327 


Till  afc  some  reverend  elder's  look  dis- 
solving, 

The   speechless    senate    silently  ad- 
journs. 

But  when  along  the  waves  the  shrill 

north-easter 
Shrieks  through  the  laboring  coaster's 

shrouds  "  Beware  !  " 
The  pale  bird,  kindling  like  a  Christmas 

feaster 

When  some  wild  chorus  shakes  the 
vinous  air, 

Flaps  from  the  leaden  wave  in  fierce  re- 
joicing, 
Feels  heaven's  dumb  lightning  thrill 

his  torpid  nerves, 
Now  on  the  blast  his  whistling  plumage 

poising, 

Now  wheeling,  whirling  in  fantastic 
carves. 

Such  is  our  gull ;  a  gentleman  of  leisure, 
Less  fleshed  than  feathered ;  bagged 

you'll  find  him  such; 
His    virtue    silence ;    his    employment 

pleasure'; 

Not  bad  to  look  at,  and  not  good  for 
much. 

What  of  our  duck  ?    He  has  some  high- 
bred cousins,  — 
His  Grace  the  Canvas-back,  My  Lord 

the  Brant,  — 
Anas  and  Anser,  —  both  served  up  by 

dozens, 

At  Boston's  Backer,  half-way  to  Na- 
hant. 

As  for  himself,  he  seems  alert  and  thriv- 
ing,— 
Grubs  up  a  living  somehow  —  what, 

who  knows  ? 
Crabs  1  mussels  1  weeds  ?  —  Look  quick ! 

there 's  one  just  diving  ! 
Flop  !  Splash !  his  white  breast  glis- 
tens —  down  he  goes ! 


And  while  he  's  under  —  just  about  a 

minute  — 
I    take    advantage    of    the    fact    to 

say 

His  fishy  carcase  has  no  virtue  in  it 
The  gunning  idiot's  worthless  hire  to 

pay- 
He    knows   you !    "  sportsmen  "  from 

suburban  alleys, 

Stretched  under  seaweed  in  the  treach- 
erous punt ; 
Knows  every  lazy,  shiftless  lout  that 

sallies 

Forth  to  waste  powder  —  as  he  says, 
to  "  hunt." 

I  watch  you  with  a  patient  satisfac- 
tion, 

Well  pleased   to  discount  your  pre- 
destined luck ; 

The  float  that  figures  in  your  sly  trans- 
action 

Will  carry  back  a  goose,  but  not  a 
duck. 

Shrewd  is  our  bird  ;  not  easy  to  outwit 

him  ! 
Sharp  is  the  outlook  of  those  pin-head 

eyes; 
Still,  he  is  mortal  and  a  shot  may  hit 

him, 

One  cannot  always  miss  him  if  he 
tries. 

Look  I  there  's  a  young  one,  dreaming 

not  of  danger ; 
Sees  a  flat  log  come  floating  down 

the  stream ; 
Stares  undismayed  upon  the  harmless 

stranger ; 

Ah !  were  all  strangers  harmless  aa 
they  seem  ! 

Habet !  a  leaden  shower  his  breast  has 

shattered ; 

Vainly    he    flutters,    not    again    to 
rise; 


828 


THE  IRON   GATE,   AND   OTHER   POEMS. 


His  soft  white  plumes  along  the  waves 

are  scattered  ; 

Helpless  the  wing  that  braved  the 
tempest  lies. 

He  sees  his  comrades  high  above  him 

flying 
To  seek  their  nests  among  the  island 

reeds ; 
Strong  is  their  flight ;  all  lonely  he  is 

lying 

Washed  by  the  crimsoned  water  as 
he  bleeds. 

O  Thou  who  cares  t  for  the  falling  spar- 
row, 
Canst  Thou  the  sinless  sufferer's  pang 

forget? 
Or  is  Thy  dread  account-book's  page  so 

narrow 

Its  one  long  column  scores  Thy  crea- 
tures' debt  ? 

Poor  gentle  guest,  by  nature    kindly 

cherished, 
A   world   grows  dark  with  thee  in 

blinding  death  ; 

One  little  gasp  —  thy  universe  has  per- 
ished, 

Wrecked  by  the  idle  thief  who  stole 
thy  breath ! 

Is  this  the  whole  sad  story  of  creation, 
Lived  by  its  breathing  myriads  o'er 

and  o'er,  — 

One  glimpse  of  day,  then  black  annihi- 
lation, — 
A  sunlit  passage  to  a  sunless  shore  ? 

Give  back  our  faith,  ye  mystery-solving 

lynxes ! 
Robe  us  once  more  in  heaven-aspiring 

creeds ! 
JIappier  was  dreaming  Egypt  with  her 

sphynxes, 

The  stony  convent  with  its  cross  and 
beads! 


How  often  gazing  where  a  bird  reposes, 
Rocked  on  the  wavelets,  drifting  with 

the  tide, 

I  lose  myself  in  strange  metempsychosis 
And  float  a  sea-fowl  at  a  sea-fowl's 
side. 

From  rain,  hail,  snow  in  feathery  mac- 

tle  muffled, 

Clear-eyed,  strong-limbed,  with  keen- 
est sense  to  hear 
My  mate   soft  murmuring,  who,   with 

plumes  unruffled, 

Where'er  I  wander  still  is  nestling 
near; 

The  great  blue  hollow  like  a  garment 

o'er  me ; 
Space    all    unmeasured,   unrecorded 

time; 
While  seen  with  inward  eye  moves  on 

before  me 

Thought's  pictured  train  in  wordless 
pantomime. 

—  A  voice  recalls  me.  —  From  my  win- 
dow turning 

I  find  myself  a  plumeless  biped  still ; 
No  beak,  no  claws,  no  sign  of  wings 

discerning,  — 

In  fact  with  nothing  bird-like  but  my 
quill. 


ON    THE  THRESHOLD. 

INTRODUCTION    TO   A     COLLECTION     Of 
POEMS   BY    DIFFERENT    AUTHORS. 

AN  usher  standing  at  the  door 

I  show  my  white  rosette  ; 
A  smile  of  welcome,  nothing  more, 

Will  pay  my  trifling  debt ; 
Why  should  I  bid  you  idly  wait 
Like  lovers  at  the  swinging  gate  ? 

Can  I  forget  the  wedding  guest  ? 
The  veteran  of  the  sea  ? 


AT   THE   PAPYRUS  CLUB. 


829 


In  vain  the  listener  smites  his  breast,  — 

"  There  was  a  ship,"  cries  he  ! 
Poor  fasting  victim,  stunned  and  pale 
He  needs  must  listen  to  the  tale. 

He  sees  the  gilded  throng  within, 
The  sparkling  goblets  gleam, 

The  music  and  the  merry  din 
Through  every  window  stream, 

But  there  he  shivers  in  the  cold 

Till  all  the  crazy  dream  is  told. 

Not  mine  the  graybeard's  glittering  eye 

That  held  his  captive  still 
To  hold  my  silent  prisoners  by 

And  let  me  have  my  will ; 
Nay,  /  were  like  the  three-years'  child, 
To  think  you  could  be  so  beguiled  ! 

My  verse  is  but  the  curtain's  fold 
That  hides  the  painted  scene, 

The  mist  by  morning's  ray  unrolled 
That  veils  the  meadow's  green, 

The  cloud  that  needs  must  drift  away 

To  show  the  rose  of  opening  day. 

See,  from  the  tinkling  rill  you  hear 

In  hollowed  palm  I  bring 
These  scanty  drops,  but  ah,  how  near 

The  founts  that  heavenward  spring! 
Thus,  open  wide  the  gates  are  thrown 
And  founts  and  flowers  are  all  your 
own ! 


TO   GEORGE   PEABODY. 

DANVERS,  1866. 

BANKRUPT  !  our  pockets  inside  out ! 

Empty  of  words  to  speak  his  praises  1 
Worcester  and  Webster  up  the  spout ! 

Dead  broke  of  laudatory  phrases ! 
Yet  why  with  flowery  speeches  tease, 

With  vain  superlatives  distress  him  ? 
Has  language  better  words  than  these  ? 

THE  FRIEND  OF  ALL   HI8   RACE,  GoD 
BLESS    HIM  ! 


A    simple    prayer  —  but    words    more 

sweet 

By  human  lips  were  never  uttered, 
Since  Adam  left  the  country  seat 
Where  angel  wings  around  him  flut- 
tered. 
The  old  look  on  with  tear-dimmed  eyes, 

The  children  cluster  to  caress  him, 
And  every  voice  unbidden  cries 

THE   FRIEND  OF  ALL  HIS  RACE,  CSOD 
BLESS    HIM  ! 

AT   THE   PAPYRUS   CLUB. 

A  LOVELY  show  for  eyes  to  see 

I  looked  upon  this  morning  — 
A  bright-hued,  feathered  company 

Of  nature's  own  adorning  ; 
But  ah!  those  minstrels  would  not  slug 

A  listening  ear  while  I  lent  — 
The    lark    sat  still    and    preened   his 
wing  — 

The  nightingale  was  silent ; 
I  longed  for  what  they  gave  me  not  — 

Their  warblings  sweet  and  fluty, 
But  grateful  still  for  all  I  got 

I  thanked  them  for  their  beauty. 

A  fairer  vision  meets  my  view 

Of  Claras,  Margarets,  Marys, 
In  silken  robes  of  varied  hue, 

Like  bluebirds  and  canaries  — 
The  roses  blush,  the  jewels  gleam, 

The  silks  and  satins  glisten, 
The  black    eyes  flash,   the   blue  eyes 
beam, 

We  look  —  and  then  we  listen  : 
Behold  the  flock  we  cage  to-night  — 

Was  ever  such  a  capture  ? 
To  see  them  is  a  pure  delight  — 

To  hear  them  —  ah  !  what  rapture ! 

Methinks  I  hear  Delilah's  laugh 
At  Samson  bound  in  fetters ;  — 

"  We  captured  !  "  shrieks  each  lovelier 

half, 
"  Men  think  themselves  our  betters  ! 


830 


THE  IRON   GATE,   AND   OTHER   POEMS. 


We  push  the  bolt,  we  turn  the  key 

On  warriors,  poets,  sages, 
Too  happy,  all  of  them,  to  be 

Locked  in  our  golden  cages  !  " 

Beware  !  the  boy  with  bandaged  eyes 

Has  flung  away  his  blinder ; 
He  's  lost  his  mother  —  so  he  cries  — 

And  here  he  knows  he  '11  find  her  : 
The  rogue  !  'c  is  but  a  new  device  — 

Look  out  for  flying  arrows 
Whene'er  the  birds  of  Paradise 

Are  perched  amid  the  sparrows  1 


FOR   WHITTIER'S  SEVENTIETH 
BIRTHDAY. 

DECEMBER   17,  1877. 

I  BELIEVE  that  the  copies  of  verses  I  've 
spun, 

Like  Scheherazade's  tales,  are  a  thou- 
sand and  one,  — 

You  remember  the  story,  —  those  morn- 
ings in  bed, — 

'T  was  the  turn  of  a  copper,  —  a  tale  or 
a  head. 

A  doom  like  Scheherazade's  falls  upon 
me 

In  a  mandate  as  stern  as  the  Sultan's 
decree  : 

I  'm  a  florist  in  verse,  and  what  would 
people  say 

If  I  came  to  a  banquet  without  my  bou- 
quet? 

It  is  trying,  no  doubt,  when  the  com- 
pany knows 

Just  the  look  and  the  smell  of  each  lily 
and  rose, 

The  green  of  each  leaf  in  the  sprigs  that 
I  bring, 

And  the  shape  of  the  bunch  and  the 
knot  of  the  string. 


Yes,  —  "  the  style  is  the  man,"  and  the 

nib  of  one's  pen 
Makes  the  same  mark  at  twenty,  and 

three-score  and  ten ; 
It  is  so  in  all  matters,  if  truth  may  be 

told; 
Let  one  look  at  the  cast  he  can  tell  you 

the  mould. 

How  we  all  know  each  other  !  no  use  in 
disguise  ; 

Through  the  holes  in  the  mask  comes 
the  flash  of  the  eyes ; 

We  can  tell  by  his  —  somewhat  —  each 
one  of  our  tribe, 

As  we  know  the  old  hat  which  we  can- 
not describe. 

Though    in    Hebrew,   in    Sanscrit,   in 

Choctaw  you  write, 
Sweet  singer  who  gave  us  the  Voices  of 

Night, 
Though  in  buskin  or  slipper  your  song 

may  be  shod, 
Or  the  velvety  verse  that  Evangeline  trod, 

We  shall  say  "  You  can't  cheat  us,  — 

we  know  it  is  you," 
There  is  one  voice  like  that,  but  there 

cannot  be  two, 
Maestro,  whose  chant  like  the  dulcimer 

rings : 
And  the  woods  will  be  hushed  while  the 

nightingale  sings. 

And  he,  so  serene,  so  majestic,  so  true, 
Whose   temple  hypaethral  the  planets 

shine  through, 
Let  us  catch  but  five  words  from  that 

mystical  pen, 
We  should  know  our  one  sage  from  all 

children  of  men. 

And  he  whose  bright  image  no  distance 

can  dim, 
Through  a  hundred  disguises  we  can't 

mistake  him, 


TWO   SONNETS:    HARVARD. 


331 


Whose  play  is  all  earnest,  whose  wit  is 
the  edge 

(With  a  beetle  behind)  of  a  sham-split- 
ting wedge. 

Do  you  know  whom  we  send  you,  Hidal- 
gos of  Spain  ? 

Do  you  know  your  old  friends  when  you 
see  them  again  1 

Hosea  was  Sancho  !  you  Dons  of  Ma- 
drid, 

But  Sancho  that  wielded  the  lance  of 
the  Cid ! 

And  the  wood-thrush  of  Essex,  —  you 

know  whom  I  mean, 
Whose  song  echoes  round  us  while  he 

sits  unseen, 
Whose  heart-throbs  of  verse  through 

our  memories  thrill 
Like  a  breath  from  the  wood,  like  a 

breeze  from  the  hill, 

So  fervid,  so  simple,  so  loving,  so  pure, 
We  hear  but  one  strain  and  our  verdict 

is  sure,  — 
Thee  cannot  elude  us,  —  no  further  we 

search,  — 
'T  is  Holy  George   Herbert  cut  loose 

from  his  church  ! 

We  think  it  the  voice  of  a  seraph  that 

sings,  — 
Alas !  we  remember  that  angels  have 

wings,  — 
What  story  is  this  of  the  day  of  his 

birth  ? 
Let  him  live  to  a  hundred !  we  want 

him  on  earth ! 

One  life  has  been  paid  him  (in  gold)  by 
the  sun ; 

One  account  has  been  squared  and  an- 
other begun ; 

But  he  never  will  die  if  he  lingers  below 

Till  we  've  paid  him  in  love  half  the 
balance  we  owe ! 


TWO   SONNETS:    HARVARD.1 

"  CHRISTO   ET   ECCLESI^E."      1700. 

TO  GOD'S  ANOINTED  AND   HIS  CHOSEIC 
FLOCK  : 

So  ran  the  phrase  the   black-robed 

conclave  chose 
To  guard   the   sacred  cloisters  that 

arose 

Like  David's  altar  on  Moriah's  rock. 
Unshaken    still   those    ancient    arches 

mock 
The  ram's  horn  summons  of  the  windy 

foes 
Who  stand  like  Joshua's  army  while 

it  blows 
And  wait  to  see  them  toppling  with  the 

shock. 
Christ  and  the  Church.     Their  church, 

whose  narrow  door 
Shut  out  the  many,  who  if  over  bold 
Like  hunted  wolves  were  driven  from 

the  fold, 

Bruised  with  the  flails  those  godly  zeal- 
ots bore, 

Mindful  that  Israel's  altar  stood  of  old 
Where  echoed  once  Araunah's  thresh- 
ing-floor. 

1643.    "  VERITAS."    1878. 

TRUTH  :  So  the  frontlet's  older  legend 

ran, 
On   the  brief  record's  opening  page 

displayed ; 
Not  yet  those  clear-eyed  scholars  were 

afraid 
Lest  the  fair  fruit  that  wrought  the  woe 

of  man 
By  far   Euphrates,  —  where    our    sire 

began 
His  search  for  truth,  and  seeking,  was 

betrayed,  — 

Might  work    new  treason    in    their 
forest  shade, 

1  At  the  meeting  of  the  New  York  Harvard 
Club,  February  21, 1878. 


832 


THE   IRON   GATE,   AND   OTHER   POEMS. 


Doubling  the  curse  that  brought  life's 

shortened  span. 
Nurse  of  the   future,  daughter  of  the 

past, 
That  stern  phylactery  best  becomes 

thee  now  : 
Lift  to  the  morning  star  thy  marble 

brow  ! 
Cast  thy  brave  truth  on  every  warring 

blast! 

Stretch  thy  white  hand  to  that  forbid- 
den bough, 

And   let  thine  earliest  symbol  be  thy 
last! 


THE  LAST   SURVIVOR.1 

YES  !  the  vacant  chairs  tell  sadly  we 

are  going,  going  fast, 
And  the  thought  comes  s'rangely  o'er 

me  who  will  live  to  be  the  last  ? 
When  the  twentieth  century's  sunbeams 

climb  the  far-off  eastern  hill 
With  his  ninety  winters  burdened  will 

he  greet  the  morning  still  ? 

Will  he  stand  with  Harvard's  nurslings 

when   they  hear  their  mother's 

call 
And  the  old  and  young  are  gathered  in 

the  many  alcoved  hall  ? 
Will  he  answer  to  the  summons  when 

they  range  themselves  in  line 
And  the  young  mustachioed   marshal 

calls  out  "  Class  of  29  "  ? 

Rethinks  I  see  the  column  as  its  length- 
ened ranks  appear 

In  the  sunshine  of  the  morrow  of  the 
nineteen  hundredth  year ; 

Through  the  yard  't  is  creeping,  wind- 
ing, by  the  walls  of  dusky  red  — 

What  shape  is  that  which  totters  at  the 
long  procession's  head  ? 

1  Annual  meeting  of  the  Class  of  1829,  Jan- 
*uy  10, 1878. 


Who  knows  this  ancient  graduate  of 
fourscore  years  and  ten,  — 

What  place  he  held,  what  name  he  bore 
among  the  sons  of  men  1 

So  speeds  the  curious  question  ;  its  an- 
swer travels  slow ; 

"  'T  is  the  last  of  sixty  classmates  of 
seventy  years  ago." 

His  figure  shows  but  dimly,  his  face  I 

scarce  can  see,  — 
There  's  something  that  reminds  me,  — 

it  looks  like  —  is  it  he  ? 
He  ?    Who  ?      No  voice   may  whisper 

what  wrinkled  brow  shall  claim 
The  wreath  of  stars  that  circles  our  last 

survivor's  name. 

Will  he  be  some  veteran  minstrel,  left 

to  pipe  in  feeble  rhyme 
All  the  stories  and  the  glories  of  our 

gay  and  golden  time  ? 
Or  some  quiet,  voiceless  brother  in  whose 

lonely  loving  breast 
Fond  memory  broods  in  silence,  like  a 

dove  upon  her  nest  ? 

Will  it  be  some  old  Emeritus,  who  taught 

so  long  ago 
The  boys  that  heard  him  lecture  have 

heads  as  white  as  snow  ? 
Or  a  pious,  painful  preacher,  holding 

forth  from  year  to  year 
Till  his  colleague  got  a  colleague  whom 

the  young  folks  flocked  to  hear  ? 

Will  it  be  a  rich  old   merchant  in  a 

square-tied  white  cravat, 
Or  select-man  of  a  village  in  a  pre-his- 

toric  hat  1 
Will  his  dwelling  be  a  mansion  in  a 

marble-fronted  row, 
Or  a  homestead  by  a  hillside  where  the 

huckleberries  grow  ? 

I  can  see  our  one  survivor,  sitting  lonelj 
by  himself,  — 


THE   LAST   SURVIVOR. 


333 


All  his  college  text-books  round  him, 
ranged  in  order  on  their  shelf ; 

There  are  classic  "  interliners "  filled 
with  learning's  choicest  pith, 

Each  cum  notis  variorum,  quas  recensuit 
doctus  Smith ; 

Physics,  metaphysics,  logic,  mathemat- 
ics—  all  the  lot  — 

Every  wisdom-crammed  octavo  he  has 
mastered  and  forgot, 

With  the  ghosts  of  dead  Professors 
standing  guard  beside  them  all ; 

And  the  room  is  full  of  shadows  which 
their  lettered  backs  recall. 

How  the  past  spreads  out  in  vision  with 

its  far  receding  train, 
Like  a  long  embroidered  arras  in  the 

chambers  of  the  brain, 
From  opening  manhood's  morning  when 

first  we  learned  to  grieve 
To  the  fond  regretful  moments  of  our 

sorrow  saddened  eve ! 

What  early  shadows  darkened  our  idle 

summer's  joy 
When  death  snatched  roughly  from  us 

that  lovely  bright-eyed  boy  ! l 
The  years  move  swiftly  onwards  ;  the 

deadly  shafts  fall  fast,  — 
Till  all  have  dropped  around  him  —  lo, 

there  he  stands,  —  the  last ! 

Their  faces  flit  before  him,  some  rosy- 
hued  and  fair, 

Some  strong  in  iron  manhood,  some 
worn  with  toil  and  care, 

Their  smiles  no  more  shall  greet  him  on 
cheeks  with  pleasure  flushed ! 

The  friendly  hands  are  folded,  the  pleas- 
ant voices  hushed  ! 


>  William  Sturgia. 


My   picture  sets  me   dreaming ;   alas  1 

and  can  it  be 
Those  two  familiar  faces  we  never  more 

may  see  ? 
In  every  entering  footfall  I  think  them 

drawing  near, 
With  every  door  that  opens  I  say,  "  At 

last  they're  here  !  " 

The  willow  bends  unbroken  when  an- 
gry tempests  blow, 

The  stately  oak  is  levelled  and  all  its 
strength  laid  low  ; 

So  fell  that  tower  of  manhood,  un- 
daunted, patient,  strong, 

White  with  the  gathering  snow-flakes, 
who  faced  the  storm  so  long.2 

And  he,3  —  what  subtle  phrases  their 
varying  light  must  blend 

To  paint  as  each  remembers  our  many- 
featured  friend ! 

His  wit  a  flash  auroral  that  laughed  in 
every  look, 

His  talk  a  sunbeam  broken  on  the  rip 
pies  of  a  brook, 

Or,  fed  from  thousand  sources,  a  foun- 
tain's glittering  jet, 

Or  careless  handfuls  scattered  of  dia- 
mond sparks  unset, 

Ah,  sketch  him,  paint  him,  mould  him 
in  every  shape  you  will, 

He  was  himself — the  only  —  the  one 
unpictured  still ! 

Farewell !  our  skies  are  darkened  and 

yet  the  stars  will  shine, 
We  '11  close  our  ranks  together  and  still 

fall  into  line 
Till  one  is  left,  one  only,  to  mourn  for 

all  the  rest ; 
And   Heaven  bequeath  their  memories 

to  him  who  loves  ns  best ! 

*  Francis  B.  Crowninshield. 
'  George  T.  Davis. 


334 


THE   IRON   GATE,   AND   OTHER   POEMS. 


THE   ARCHBISHOP    AND    GIL 
BLAS.1 

A   MODERNIZED    VERSION. 

I  DON'T  think  I  feel  much  older ;  I  'm 

aware  I  'm  rather  gray, 
But  so  are  many  young  folks ;  I  meet 

'em  every  day. 
I  confess  I  'm  more  particular  in  what 

I  eat  and  drink, 
But  one's  taste  improves  with  culture ; 

that  is  all  it  means,  I  think. 

Can  you    read    as    once    you  used  to  ? 

Well,  the  printing  is  so  bad, 
No  young  folks'  eyes  can  read  it  like  the 

books  that  once  we  had. 
Are  you  quite  as  quick  of  hearing  ?  Please 

to  say  that  once  again. 
Don't  I  use  plain  words,  your  Reverence? 

Yes,  I  often  use  a  cane, 

But  it's  not  because  I  need  it,  —  no, 

I  always  liked  a  stick ; 
And  as  one  might  lean  upon  it,  'tis  as 

well  it  should  be  thick. 
Oh,  I  'm  smart,  I  'm  spry,  I  'm  lively,  — 

I  can  walk,  yes,  that  I  can, 
On  the  days  I  feel  like  walking,  just  as 

well  as  you,  young  man ! 

Don't  you  get  a  little  sleepy  after  dinner 

every  day  ? 
Well,  I  doze  a  little,  sometimes,  but  that 

always  was  my  way. 
Don't  you  cry  a  little  easier  than  some 

twenty  years  ago  1 
Well,  my  heart  is  very  tender,  but  I 

think  't  was  always  so. 

Don't  you  find  it  sometimes  happens  that 

you  can't  recall  a  name  ? 
Yes,  —  I  know  such  lots  of  people,  — 

but  my  memory 's  not  to  blame. 

*  Annual  Meeting  of  the  Class  of  1829,  Jan- 
Bary  6,  1879. 


What  !  You  think  my  memory 's  fail- 
ing! Why,  it's  just  as  bright 
and  clear,  — 

I  remember  my  great-grandma!  She's 
been  dead  these  sixty  year  ! 

Is  your  voice  a  little  trembly  ?     Well,  it 

may  be,  now  and  then, 
But  I  write  as  well  as  ever  with  a  good 

old-fashioned  pen ; 
It's  the  Gillotts  make  the  trouble, — 

not  at  all  my  finger-ends,  — 
That  is  why  my  hand  looks  shaky  when 

I  sign  for  dividends. 

Don't  you  stoop  a  little,  walking  ?     It 's 

a  way  I  've  always  had, 
I  have  always  been  round  -  shouldered 

ever  since  I  was  a  lad. 
Don't  you   hate  to  tie  your  shoe-strings? 

Yes,  I  own  it —  that  is  true. 
Don't  you  tell  old  stories  over  ?     I  am  not 

aware  I  do. 

Don't  you  stay  at  home  of  evenings  ? 
Don't  you  love  a  cushioned  seat 

In  a  corner,  by  the  fireside,  with  your  slip- 
pers on  your  feet  ? 

Don't  you  wear  warm  fieecy  fiannels  ? 
Don't  you  muffle  up  your  throat? 

Don't  you  like  to  have  one  help  you  when 
you  're  putting  on  your  coat  ? 

Don't  you  like  old  books  you  've  dogs- 
eared,  you  can't  remember  when  ? 

Don't  you  call  it  late  at  nine  o'clock  and 
go  to  bed  at  ten  1 

Bow  many  cronies  can  you  count  of  all 
you  used  to  know 

Who  called  you  by  your  Christian  name 
some  fifty  years  ago  ? 

How  look  the  prizes  to  you   that  used  to 

fire  your  brain  ? 
You 've  reared  your  mound  —  how  high  it 

it  above  the  level  plain  1 


THE  SHADOWS. 


335 


You've  drained  the  brimming  golden  cup 
that  made  your  fancy  reel, 

You  've  slept  the  giddy  potion  off",  —  now 
tell  us  how  you  feel ! 

You,  've  watched  the  harvest  ripening  till 

every  stem  was  cropped, 
You  've  seen  the  rose  of  beauty  fade  till 

every  petal  dropped, 
You  've   told  your   thought,  you  've   done 

your  task,  you  've  tracked  your  dial 

round, 
—  I  backing  down  !     Thank  Heaven, 

not  yet !   I  'm  hale  and  brisk  and 

sound, 

And  good  for  many  a    tussle,  as   you 

shall  live  to  see  ; 
My  shoes  are  not  quite    ready  yet,  — 

don't  think  you  're  rid  of  me ! 
Old  Parr  was  in  his  lusty  prime  when 

he  was  older  far, 
And  where  will  you  be  if  I  live  to  beat 

old  Thomas  Parr  ? 

Ah  well,  —  I  know,  —  at  every  age  life  has 

a  certain  charm,  — 
You  're  going  ?     Come,  permit  me,  please, 

1  beg  you  'II  take  my  arm. 
I  take  your  arm  !  •  Why  take  your  arm? 

I  'd  thank  you  to  be  told 
I  'ra  old  enough  to  walk  alone,  but  not 

so  very  old  ! 


THE  SHADOWS.1 

M  How  many  have  gone  1 "  was  the  ques- 
tion of  old 
Ere  Time  our  bright  ring  of  its  jewels 

bereft ; 
Alas !  for  too  often  the  death-bell  has 

tolled, 

And  the. question  we  ask  is,    "  How 
many  are  left  ?  " 

1  Annual  Meeting  of  the  Class  of  1829,  Jauu- 
try  8,  1880. 


Bright  sparkled  the  wine ;   there  were 

fifty  that  quaffed ; 
For  a  decade  had   slipped   and   had 

taken  but  three. 
How  they  frolicked  and  sung,  how  they 

shouted  and  laughed, 
Like  a  school  full  of  boys  from  their 
benches  set  free ! 

There  were  speeches  and  toasts,  there 

were  stories  and  rhymes, 
The  hall  shook  its  sides  with   their 

merriment's  noise ; 

As  they  talked  and  lived  over  the  col- 
lege-day times,  — 

No  wonder  they  kept  their  old  name 
of  "  The  Boys  "  ! 

The  seasons  moved  on  in  their  rhyth- 
mical flow 
With    mornings    like    maidens    that 

pouted  or  smiled, 
With  the  bud  and  the  leaf  and  the  fruit 

and  the  snow, 

And  the  year -books  of  Time  in  his 
alcoves  were  piled. 

There  were  forty  that  gathered  where 

fifty  had  met ; 
Some  locks  had  got  silvered,  some 

lives  had  grown  sere, 
But  the  laugh  of  the  laughers  was  lusty 

as  yet, 

And  the  song  of  the  singers  rose  ring- 
ing and  clear. 

Still  flitted  the  years ;  there  were  thirty 

that  came ; 
"  The  Boys  "  they  were  still  and  they 

answered  their  call ; 
There  were  foreheads  of  care,  but  the 

smiles  were  the  same 
And  the  chorus  rang  loud  through 
the  garlanded  hall. 

The    hour-hand    moved    on,   and   they 
gathered  again ; 


336 


THE   IRON   GATE,   AND   OTHER   POEMS. 


There  were  twenty  that  joined  in  the 

hymn  that  was  sung, 
But  ah !  for  our  song-bird  we  listened  in 

vain,  — 
The  crystalline  tones  like  a  seraph's 

that  rung ! 

How  narrow  the  circle  that  holds  us  to- 
night ! 
How  many  the  loved  ones  that  greet 

us  no  more, 
As   we   meet  like  the  stragglers  that 

come  from  the  fight, 
Like  the  mariners  flung  from  a  wreck 
on  the  shore ! 

We  look  through  the  twilight  for  those 

we  have  lost ; 
The  stream  rolls  between  us,  and  yet 

they  seem  near ; 
Already    outnumbered    by  those    who 

have  crossed, 

Our  band  is  transplanted,  its  home  is 
not  here ! 

They  smile  on  us  still  —  is  it  only  a 

dream  ?  — 
While  fondly  or  proudly  their  names 

we  recall  — 
They  beckon  —  they  come  —  they  are 

crossing  the  stream  — 
Lo  !    the   Shadows  !    the   Shadows ! 
room  —  room  for  them  all ! 


THE  COMING   ERA. 

THEY  tell  us  that  the  Muse  is  soon  to 

ly  hence, 
Leaving  the  bowers  of  song  that  were 

once  dear, 
Her  robes  bequeathing  to  her  sister, 

Science, 

The  groves  of  Pindus  for  the  axe  to 
clear. 


Optics  will  claim  the  wandering  eye  of 

fancy, 
Physics    will     grasp     imagination's 

wings, 

Plain  fact  exorcise  fiction's  necromancy, 
The   workshop   hammer   where    the 
minstrel  sings. 

No  more  with  laughter  at  Thalia's  frolics 
Our  eyes  shall  twinkle  till  the  tears 

run  down, 

But   in   her   place  the  lecturer  on  hy- 
draulics 

Spout  forth  his  watery  science  to  the 
town. 

No  more  our  foolish  passions  and  affec- 
tions 
The  tragic   Muse  with   mimic  grief 

shall  try, 

But,   nobler  far,  a    course   of  vivisec- 
tions 

Teach  what  it  costs  a  tortured  brute 
to  die. 

The   unearthed  monad,  long  in  buried 

rocks  hid, 
Shall  tell  the  secret  whence  our  being 

came ; 
The    chemist  show  us   death  is  life's 

black  oxide, 

Left  when  the  breath  no  longer  fans 
its  flame. 

Instead   of    cracked  -  brained   poets  in 

their  attics 

Filling  thin  volumes  with  their  flow- 
ery talk, 
There    shall    be  books    of    wholesome 

mathematics ; 

The  tutor  with  his  blackboard  and  his 
chalk. 

No  longer  bards  with  madrigal  and  son- 
net 

Shall  woo  to  moonlight  walks  the  rib 
boned  sex, 


IN  RESPONSE. 


337 


But  side  by  side  the  beaver  and  the  bon- 
net 

Stroll,   calmly    pondering    on    some 
problem's  x. 

The  sober  bliss  of  serious  calculation 
Shall  mock  the  trivial  joys  that  fancy 

drew, 

And,  oh,  the  rapture  of  a  solved  equa- 
tion, — 

One  self-same  answer  on  the  lips  of 
two  ! 

So  speak  in  solemn  tones  our  youthful 

sages, 

Patient,  severe,  laborious,  slow,  ex- 
act, 

As  o'er  creation's  protoplasmic  pages 
They  browse  and  munch  the  thistle 
crops  of  fact. 

And    yet  we  've    sometimes    found   it 

rather  pleasant 
To    dream    again    the    scenes    that 

Shakespeare  drew, — 
To  walk  the  hill-side  with  the  Scottish 

peasant 

Among  the   daisies  wet  with  morn- 
ing's dew  ; 

To  leave  awhile   the    daylight  of  the 

real, 
Led  by  the  guidance  of  the  master's 

hand, 
For  the   strange   radiance    of   the  far 

ideal,  — 

"  The  light  that  never  was  on  sea  or 
land." 

Well,  Time  alone  can  lift  the  future's 

curtain, — 
Science  may  teach  our  children   all 

she  knows, 
But  Love  will  kindle  fresh  young  hearts, 

't  is  certain, 

And  June  will  not  forget  her  blush- 
ing rose. 

29 


And  so,  in  spite  of  all  that  Time  is 

bringing,  — 

Treasures  of  truth  and  miracles  of  art, 
Beauty  and  Love  will  keep  the  poet  sing- 
ing, 

And  song  still  live,  the  science  of  the 
heart. 


IN   RESPONSE.1 

Seen   kindness !  the  scowl  of  a  cynic 

would  soften, 

His  pulse  beat  its  way  to  some  elo- 
quent words, 
Alas !  my  poor  accents  have  echoed  too 

often, 

Like    that    Pinafore    music    you  've 
some  of  you  heard. 

Do  you  know  me,  dear  strangers  —  the 

hundredth-time  comer 
At  banquets  and  feasts  since  the  days 

of  my  Spring  ? 
Ah !  would  I  could  borrow  one  rose  of 

my  Summer, 

But  this  is  a  leaf  of  my  Autumn  I 
bring. 

I  look  at  your  faces,  —  I  'm  sure  there 

are  some  from 
The  three-breasted  mother  I  count  as 

my  own ; 
You  think  you  remember  the  place  you 

have  come  from, 

But  how  it  has  changed  in  the  years 
that  have  flown  ! 

Unaltered,  't  is  true,  is  the  hall  we  call 

"  Funnel," 
Still  fights  the  "  Old  South  "  in  the 

battle  for  life, 
But  we've  opened  our  door  to  the  West 

through  the  tunnel, 
And  we  've  cut  off  Fort  Hill  with  our 
Amazon  knife. 

i  Breakfast  at  the  Century  Club,  New  York, 
May,  1879. 


338 


THE  IRON   GATE,   AND   OTHER   POEMS. 


You   should   see  the  new  Westminster 

Boston  has  builded,  — 
Its  mansions,  its  spires,  its  museums 

of  arts,  — 
You  should  see  the  great  dome  we  have 

gorgeously  gilded,  — 
'T  is  the  light  of  our  eyes,  't  is  the 
joy  of  our  hearts. 

When  first  in  his  path  a  young  asteroid 

found  it, 
As  he  sailed  through  the  skies  with 

the  stars  in  his  wake, 
He  thought  'twas  the  sun,  and   kept 

circling  around  it 

Till  Edison  signalled,  "  You  've  made 
a  mistake." 

We  are  proud  of  our  city,  —  her  fast- 
growing  figure, 
The  warp  and  the  woof  of  her  hraiu 

and  her  hands,  — 
But  we  're  proudest  of  all  that  her  heart 

has  grown  bigger, 

And  warms  with  fresh  blood  as  her 
girdle  expands. 

One  lesson  the  rubric  of  conflict  has 

taught  her : 

Though  parted  awhile  by  war's  earth- 
rending  shock, 
The  lines  that  divide  us  are  written  in 

water, 

The  love  that  unites  us  cut  deep  in 
the  rock. 

As  well  might  the  Judas  of  treason  en- 
deavor 
To  write  his  black  name  on  the  disk 

of  the  sun 
As  try  the  bright  star-wreath  that  binds 

us  to  sever 

And  blot  the  fair  legend  of  "  Many 
in  One." 

We  love  YOU,  tall  sister,  the  stately, 
the  splendid, — 


The  banner  of  empire  floats  high  on 

your  towers, 

Yet  ever  in  welcome  your  arms  are  ex- 
tended,— 

We  share  in  your    splendors,   your 
glory  is  ours. 

Yes,  Queen  of  the  Continent !    All  of 

us  own  thee,  — 
The  gold-freighted  argosies  flock  at 

thy  call, 
The  naiads,  the  sea-nymphs  have  met  to 

enthrone  thee, 

But  the  Broadway  of  one  is  the  High- 
way of  all ! 

—  I  thank  you.     Three  words  that  can 

hardly  be  mended, 

Though  phrases  on  phrases  their  elo- 
quence pile, 
If  you  hear  the  heart's  throb  with  their 

eloquence  blended, 

And  read  all  they  mean  in  a  sunshiny 
smile. 


FOR   THE    MOORE   CENTENNIAL 
CELEBRATION. 

MAY  28,  1879. 

I. 

ENCHANTER  of  Erin,  whose  magic  has 

bound  us, 
Thy  wand  for  one  moment  we  fondly 

would  claim, 

Entranced  while  it  summons  the  phan- 
toms around  us 

That  blush  into  life  at  the  sound  of 
thy  name. 

The  tell-tales  of  memory   wake  from 

their  slumbers,  — 

I  hear  the  old  song  with  its  tender  re- 
frain, — 

What  passion  lies  hid  in  those  honey- 
voiced  numbers ! 

What  perfume  of  youth  in  each  ex- 
quisite strain ! 


MOORE  CENTENNIAL  CELEBRATION. 


839 


The  home  of  my  childhood  comes  back 

as  a  vision, — 
Hark  !  Hark  !   A  soft  chord  from  its 

song-haunted  room,  — 
'T  is  a  morning  of  May,  when  the  air  is 

Elysian,  — 

The  syringa  in  bud  and  the  lilac  in 
bloom,  — 

We  are  clustered  around  the  "  demen- 
ti "  piano,  — 
There  were  six  of  us  then,  —  there 

are  two  of  us  now,  — 
She  is  singing,  —  the  girl  with  the  sil- 
ver soprano,  — 

How  "  The  Lord  of  the  Valley  "  was 
false  to  his  vow  : 

"  Let  Erin  remember  "  the  echoes  are 

calling : 
Through  "  The  Vale  of  Avoca  "  the 

waters  are  rolled : 

"  The  Exile "  laments  while  the  night- 
dews  are  falling  : 

"  The  Morning  of  Life  "  dawns  again 
as  of  old. 

But  ah  !  those  warm  love-songs  of  fresh 

adolescence  ! 
Around  us  such  raptures  celestial  they 

flung 
That  it  seemed  as  if  Paradise  breathed 

its  quintessence 

Through  the  seraph-toned  lips  of  the 
maiden  that  sung ! 

Long  hushed  are  the  chords  that  my 

boyhood  enchanted 
As  when  the  smooth  wave  by  the  an- 
gel was  stirred, 
i'et  still  with  their  music  is  memory 

haunted 

And  oft  in  my  dreams  are  their  melo- 
dies beard. 


I  feel  like  the  priest  to  his  altar  return- 
ing,— 
The    crowd   that  was    kneeling    no 

longer  is  there, 
The  flame  has  died  down,  but  the  brands 

are  still  burning, 

And  sandal  and  cinnamon  sweeten  the 
air. 

II. 
The  veil  for  her  bridal  young  Summer 

is  weaving 

In  her  azure-domed  hall  with  its  tap- 
estried floor, 

And  Spring  the  last  tear-drop  of  May- 
dew  is  leaving 

On  the  daisy  of  Burns  and  the  sham- 
rock of  Moore. 

How  like,  how  unlike,  as  we  view  them 

together, 

The  song  of  the  minstrels  whose  rec- 
ord we  scan,  — 
One  fresh  as  the  breeze  blowing  over 

the  heather,  — 

One  sweet  as  the  breath  from  an  oda- 
lisque's fan ! 

Ah,  passion  can   glow  mid  a  palace's 

splendor ; 
The  cage  does  not  alter  the  song  of 

the  bird  ; 

And  the  curtain  of  silk  has  known  whis- 
pers as  tender 

As  ever  the  blossoming  hawthorn  has 
heard. 

No  fear  lest  the  step  of  the  soft-slippered 

Graces 
Should  fright  the  young  Loves  from 

their  warm  little  nest, 
For  the  heart  of  a  queen,  under  jewels 

and  laces, 

Beats  time  with  the  pulse  iu  the  peas- 
ant girl's  breast  1 


340 


THE   IRON   GATE,    AND   OTHER   POEMS. 


Thrice  welcome  each  gift  of  kind  Na- 
ture's bestowing  ! 
Her  fountain  heeds  little  the  goblet 

we  hold  ; 

Alike,  when  its  musical  waters  are  flow- 
ing, 

The  shell  from  the  seaside,  the  chal- 
ice of  gold. 

The  twins  of  the  lyre  to  her  voices  had 

listened  ; 

Both  laid  their  best  gifts  upon  Liber- 
ty's shrine ; 

For  Coila's  loved   minstrel   the  holly- 
wreath  glistened  ; 

For  Erin's  the  rose  and  the  myrtle  en- 
twine. 

And  while  the  fresh  blossoms  of  sum- 
mer are  braided 
For  the  sea-girdled,  stream-silvered, 

lake-jewelled  isle, 
While  her  mantle  of  verdure  is  woven 

unfaded, 

While  Shannon  and  Liffey  shall  dim- 
ple and  smile. 

The  land  where  the  staff  of  Saint  Pat- 
rick was  planted, 
Where   the   shamrock    grows   green 

from  the  cliffs  to  the  shore, 
The  land  of  fair  maidens  and   heroes 

undaunted, 

Shall   wreathe  her  bright  harp  with 
the  garlands  of  Moore ! 

TO  JAMES    FREEMAN    CLARKE- 

APRIL  4,  1880. 

I  BRING  the  simplest  pledge  of  love, 

Friend  of  my  earlier  days  ; 
Mine  is  the  hand  without  the  glove, 

The  heart-beat,  not  the  phrase. 

How  few  still  breathe  this  mortal  air 
We  called  by  schoolboy  names ! 


You  still,  whatever  robe  you  wear, 
To  me  are  always  James. 

That  name  the  kind  apostle  bore 
Who  shames  the  sullen  creeds, 

Not  trusting  less,  but  loving  more, 
And  showing  faith  by  deeds. 

What  blending  thoughts  our  memories 
share  ! 

What  visions  yours  and  mine 
Of  May-days  in  whose  morning  air 

The  dews  were  golden  wine, 

Of  vistas  bright  with  opening  day, 

Whose  all-awakening  sun 
Showed  in  life's  landscape,  far  away, 

The  summits  to  be  won  ! 

The  heights  are  gained.  —  Ah,  say  not 

so 

For  him  who  smiles  at  time, 
Leaves   his  tired    comrades  down    be- 
low, 
And  only  lives  to  climb  ! 

His  labors,  —  will  they  ever  cease,  — 
With  hand  and  tongue  and  pen  1 

Shall  wearied  Nature  ask  release 
At  threescore  years  and  ten  ? 

Our  strength   the   clustered   seasons 
tax, — 

For  him  new  life  they  mean  ; 
Like  rods  around  the  lictor's  axe 

They  keep  him  bright  and  keen. 

The  wise,  the  brave,   the  strong,   we 
know,  — 

We  mark  them  here  or  there, 
But  he,  —  we  roll  our  eyes,  and  lo  ! 

We  find  him  everywhere  ! 

With  truth's  bold  cohorts,  or  alone, 
He  strides  through  error's  field  ; 

His  lance  is  ever  manhood's  own, 
His  breast  is  woman's  shield. 


AMERICAN   ACADEMY   CENTENNIAL   CELEBRATION. 


341 


Count  not  his  years  while   earth   has 
need 

Of  souls  that  Heaveu  inflames 
With  sacred  zeal  to  save,  to  lead,  — 

Long  live  our  dear  Saint  James  ! 


WELCOME    TO    THE    CHICAGO 
COMMERCIAL    CLUB. 

JANUARY    14,  1880. 

CHICAGO  sounds  rough  to  the  maker  of 
verse  ; 

One  comfort  we  have  —  Cincinnati 
sounds  worse ; 

If  we  only  were  licensed  to  say  Chi- 
cago! 

But  Worcester  and  Webster  won't  let 
us,  you  know. 

No  matter,  we  songsters  must  sing  as 
we  can  ; 

We  can  make  some  nice  couplets  with 
Lake  Michigan, 

And  what  more  resembles  a  nightin- 
gale's voice, 

Than  the  oily  trisyllable,  sweet  Illinois  ? 

Your  waters  are  fresh,  while  our  har- 
bor is  salt, 

But  we  know  you  can't  help  it  —  it  is  n't 
your  fault  ; 

Our  city  is  old  and  your  city  is  new, 

But  the  railroad  men  tell  us  we  're 
greener  than  you. 

You  have  seen  our  gilt  dome,  and  no 

doubt  you  've  been  told 
That  the  orbs  of  the  universe  round 

it  are  rolled ; 
But  I  '11  own  it  to  you,  and  I  ought  to 

know  best, 
That  this  isn't  quite  true  of  all  stars  of 

the  West. 


You  '11  go   to  Mount  Auburn  —  we  '11 
show  you  the  track,  — 


And  can  stay  there,  —  unless  you  pre- 
fer to  come  back  ; 

And  Bunker's  tall  shaft  you  can  climb 
if  you  will, 

But  you  '11  puff  like  a  paragraph  prais- 
ing a  pill. 

You  must  see  —  but  you  have  seen  — - 

our  old  Faneuil  Hall, 
Our  churches,   our    school-rooms,  our 

sample-rooms,  all ; 
And,  perhaps,  though   the   idiots   must 

have  their  jokes, 
You  have  found  our  good  people  much 

like  other  folks. 

There  are  cities  by  rivers,  by  lakes  and 

by  seas, 
Each  as  full  of  itself  as  a  cheese-mite  of 

cheese ; 
And  a  city  will  brag  as  a  game-cock 

will  crow  : 
Don't  your  cockerels  at  home  —  just  a 

little,  you  know  ? 

But  we  '11  crow  for  you  now  —  here  's  a 
health  to  the  boys, 

Men,  maidens,  and  matrons  of  fair  Illi- 
nois, 

And  the  raiubow  of  friendship  that 
arches  its  span 

From  the  green  of  the  sea  to  the  blue 
Michigan  I 


AMERICAN     ACADEMY    CENTEN- 
NIAL CELEBRATION. 

MAY  26,  1880. 

SIRE,  son,  and  grandson  ;  so  the  century 

glides  ; 

Three  lives,  three  strides,  three  foot- 
prints in  the  sand; 
Silent    as    midnight's    falling    meteor 

slides 

Into  the  stillness  of  the  far-off  land  ; 
How  dim  the  space  its  little  arc  has 
spanned  ! 


842 


THE   IRON   GATE,   AND   OTHER   POEMS. 


See  on  this  opening  page  the  names  re- 
nowned 

Tombed  in  these  records  on  our  dusty 

shelves, 

Scarce  on  the  scroll   of  living  memory 
found, 

Save  where  the  wan-eyed  antiquarian 
delves ; 

Shadows  they  seem  ;  ah,  what  are  we 
ourselves  1 

Pale    ghosts    of    Bowdoin,  Winthrop, 
Willard,  West, 

Sages  of    busy   brain    and   wrinkled 

brow, 

Searchers    of  Nature's  secrets   uncon- 
fessed, 

Asking  of  all    things  Whence    and 
Why  and  How  — 

What  problems  meet  your  larger  vis- 
ion now  ? 

Has  Gannett  tracked  the  wild  Aurora's 
path  ? 

Has  Bowdoin  found  his  all-surround- 
ing sphere  ? 

What  question  puzzles  ciphering  Philo- 
math ? 

Could   Williams    make    the    hidden 
causes  clear 

Of  the  Dark  Day  that  filled  the  land 
with  fear  ? 

Dear  ancient  schoolboys !   Nature  taught 

to  them 
The  simple  lessons  of  the  star  and 

flower, 
Showed  them  strange  sights  ;  how  on  a 

single  stem,  — 

Admire  the  marvels  of  Creative  Pow- 
er!— 

Twin    apples  grew,  one    sweet,   the 
other  sour, 

How  from  the  hill-top  where  our  eyes 
behold 


In  even   ranks  the  plumed  and  ban- 
nered maize 

Range  its  long  columns,  in  the  days  of 
old 

The    live    volcano    shot    its    angry 
blaze,  — 

Dead   since  the   showers    of  Noah's 
watery  days ; 

How,    when    the    lightning    split    the 

mighty  rock, 
The  spreading  fury  of  the  shaft  was 

spent ! 
How  the  young  scion  joined  the  alien 

stock, 
And  when  and  where  the   homeless 

swallows  went 
To  pass  the  winter  of  their  discontent. 

Scant  were  the  gleanings  in  those  years 
of  dearth  ; 

No  Cuvier  yet  had  clothed  the  fossil 

bones 

That  slumbered,  waiting  for  their  sec- 
ond birth  ; 

No    Lyell    read    the   legend   of    the 
stones ; 

Science  still   pointed   to   her    empty 
thrones. 

Dreaming  of  orbs  to  eyes  of  earth  un- 
known, 
Herschel  looked  heavenwards  in  the 

starlight  pale ; 

Lost  in  those  awful  depths  he  trod  alone) 
Laplace  stood  mute  before  the  lifted 

veil; 

While  home-bred  Humboldt  trimmed 
his  toy  ship's  sail. 

No  mortal  feet  these  loftier  heights  had 

gained 
Whence  the  wide  realms  of  Nature 

we  descry ; 
In  vain  their  eyes  our  longing  father* 

strained 


THE   SCHOOL-BOY. 


343 


To  scan  with  wondering  gaze  the 
summits  high 

That  far  beneath  their  children's  foot- 
paths lie. 

Smile  at  their  first  small  ventures  as  we 

may, 
The  school  -  boy's  copy  shapes   the 

scholar's  hand, 
Their  grateful  memory  fills  our  hearts 

to-day ; 
Brave,  hopeful,  wise,  this  bower  of 

peace  they  planned, 
While  war's  dread  ploughshare  scarred 
the  suffering  land. 

Child  of  our  children's  children  yet  un- 
born, 
When  on  this  yellow  page  you  turn 

your  eyes, 
Where  the  brief  record  of  this  May-day 

morn 

In  phrase  antique  and  faded  letters  lies, 
How  vague,   how    pale    our  flitting 
ghosts  will  rise  ! 

Yet  in  our  veins   the   blood  ran  warm 

and  red, 
For  us  the  fields  were  green,  the  skies 

were  blue, 
Though  from  our  dust  the  spirit  long 

has  fled, 
We   lived,   we  loved,  we  toiled,  we 

dreamed  like  you, 
Smiled  at  onr  sires  and  thought  how 

much  we  knew. 


Oh  might  our  spirits  for  one  hour  re- 
turn, 

When  the  next  century  rounds  its 

hundredth  ring, 

All  the  strange  secrets  it  shall  teach  to 
learn, 

To  hear  the  larger  truths  its  years 
shall  bring, 

Its  wiser  sages  talk,  its  sweeter  min- 
strels sing  I 


THE   SCHOOL -BOY. 

READ   AT    THE    CENTENNIAL    CELEBRA- 
TION OF  THE  FOUNDATION  OF  PHILLIPS 
ACADEMY,    ANDOVER. 

1778-1878. 

THESE  hallowed  precincts,  long  to  mem- 
ory dear, 
Smile  with  fresh  welcome  as  our  feet 

draw  near ; 
With  softer  gales  the  opening  leaves 

are  fanned, 
With  fairer  hues  the  kindling  flowers 

expand, 
The  rose-bush  reddens  with  the  blush  of 

June, 

The  groves  are  vocal  with  their  min- 
strels' tune, 
The  mighty  elm,  beneath  whose  arching 

shade 
The  wandering  children  of  the  forest 

strayed, 
Greets  the  bright  morning  in  its  bridal 

dress, 
And    spreads  its  arms    the    gladsome 

dawn  to  bless. 

Is  it  an  idle  dream  that  nature  shares 
Our  joys,  our  griefs,  our  pastimes,  and 

our  cares  ? 
Is  there  no  summons  when,  at  morning's 

call, 
The  sable  vestments   of  the   darkness 

fall? 
Does  not  meek  evening's  low-voiced  A ve 

blend 

With  the  soft  vesper  as  its  notes  ascend  ? 
Is  there  no  whisper  in  the  perfumed  air 
When  the  sweet  bosom  of  the  rose  is 

bare? 

Does  not  the  sunshine  call  us  to  rejoice  ? 
Is  there  no  meaning  in  the  storm-cloud's 

voice  ? 
No  silent  message  when  from  midnight 

skies 
Heaven  looks  upon  us  with  its  myriad 


344 


THE   IRON   GATE,   AND  OTHER   POEMS. 


Or  shift  the  mirror ;  say  our  dreams 

diffuse 
O'er  life's  pale  landscape  their  celestial 

hues, 
Lend  heaven  the  rainbow  it  has  never 

known, 
And  robe  the  earth  in  glories  not   its 

own, 
Sing  their  own  music  in  the  summer 

breeze, 
With  fresher  foliage  clothe  the  stately 

trees, 
Stain  the  June  blossoms  with  a  livelier 

dye 

And  spread  a  bluer  azure  on  the  sky,  — 
Blest  be  the  power  that  works  its  law- 
less will 
And  finds  the  weediest  patch  an  Eden 

still ; 
No  walls  so  fair  as  those  our  fancies 

build,  — 
No  views  so  bright  as  those  our  visions 

gild! 

So  ran  my  lines,  as  pen  and  paper 
met, 

The  truant  goose-quill  travelling  like 
Planchette ; 

Too  ready  servant,  whose  deceitful  ways 

Full  many  a  slipshod  line,  alas  !  be- 
trays; 

Hence  of  the  rhyming  thousand  not  a 
few 

Have  builded  worse  —  a  great  deal  — 
than  they  knew. 

What  need  of  idle  fancy  to  adorn 
Our  mother's   birthplace  on  her  birth- 
day morn  ? 

Hers  are  the  blossoms  of  eternal  spring, 
From    these    green    boughs    her  new- 
fledged  birds  take  wing, 
These  echoes  hear  their  earliest  carols 

sung, 

In  this  old  nest  the  brood  is  ever  young. 
If  some  tired  wanderer,  resting  from  his 
flight, 


Amid  the  gay  young  choristers  alight, 

These  gather  round  him,  mark  his  faded 
plumes 

That  faintly  still  the  far-off  grove  per- 
fumes, 

And  listen,  wondering  if  some  feeble 
note 

Yet  lingers,  quavering  in  his  weary 
throat : — 

I,  whose  fresh  voice  yon  red-faced  tem- 
ple knew, 

What  tune  is  left  me,  fit  to  sing  to 
you? 

Ask  not  the  grandeurs  of  a  labored 
song, 

But  let  my  easy  couplets  slide  along ; 

Much  could  I  tell  you  that  you  know 
too  well ; 

Much  I  remember,  but  I  will  not  tell ; 

Age  brings  experience ;  graybeards  oft 
are  wise, 

But  oh!  how  sharp  a  youngster's  ears 
and  eyes ! 

My  cheek  was   bare    of    adolescent 

down 

When  first  I  sought  the  academic  town ; 
Slow  rolls  the  coach  along  the  dusty 

road, 

Big  with  its  filial  and  parental  load  ; 
The  frequent  hills,   the  lonely  woods 


The  school-boy's  chosen  home  is  reached 

at  last, 

I  see  it  now,  the  same  unchanging  spot, 
The   swinging   gate,   the   little  garden 

plot, 
The  narrow  yard,  the  rock  that   made 

its  floor, 

The  flat,  pale  house,  the  knocker-gar- 
nished door, 
The  small,  trim  parlor,  neat,  decorous, 

chill, 
The  strange,  new  faces,  kind,  but  grave 

and  still ; 
Two,  creased  with  age,  —  or  what  I  then 

called  age,  — 


THE   SCHOOL-BOY. 


345 


Life's  volume  open  at  its  fiftieth  page  ; 

One,   a    shy    maiden's,   pallid,    placid, 
sweet 

As  the  first  snow-drop,  which  the  sun- 
beams greet ; 

One  the  last  nursling's  ;  slight  she  was, 
and  fair, 

Her    smooth  white    forehead    warmed 
with  auburn  hair ; 

Last  came  the  virgin  Hymen  long  had 
spared, 

Whose  daily  cares  the  grateful  house- 
hold shared, 

Strong,  patient,  humble  ;  her  substan- 
tial frame 

Stretched  the  chaste  draperies  I  forbear 

to  name. 

Brave,  but  with  effort,  had  the  school- 
boy come 

To   the  cold    comfort  of  a  stranger's 
home ; 

How  like  a  dagger  to  my  sinking  heart 

Came  the  dry  summons,  "  It  is  time  to 
part  ; 

"  Good  -  by  !  "     "  Goo  —  ood  -  by  !  "  one 
fond  maternal  kiss.     .     .    . 

Homesick  as  death !     Was  ever  pang 
like  this?    .     .     . 

Too  young  as  yet  with  willing  feet  to 
stray 

From  the   tame    fireside,  glad  to  get 
away,  — 

Too  old  to  let  my  watery  grief  appear, — 

And    what   so  bitter   as  a   swallowed 

tear ! 

One  figure  still  my  vagrant  thoughts 
pursue ; 

First  boy  to  greet  me,  Ariel,  where  are 
you? 

Imp  of  all  mischief,  heaven  alone  knows 
how 

You  learned  it  all,  —  are  you  an  angel 
now, 

Or  tottering  gently  down  the  slope  of 
years, 

Your  face  grown  sober  in  the  vale  of 
tears? 


Forgive  my  freedom  if  you  are  breath- 
ing still ; 

If  in  a  happier  world,  I  know  you  will. 

You  were  a  school-boy  —  what  beneath 
the  sun 

So  like  a  monkey  1    I  was  also  one. 
Strange,  sure  enough,  to  see  what  cu- 
rious shoots 

The  nursery   raises  from   the    study's 
roots  ! 

In  those  old  days  the  very,  very  good 

Took  up  more  room  —  a  little  —  than 
they  should  ; 

Something  too  much  one's  eyes  encoun- 
tered then 

Of  serious  youth  and  funeral-visaged 
men  ; 

The  solemn  elders  saw  life's  mournful 
half,  — 

Heaven  sent  this   boy,   whose  mission 
was  to  laugh, 

Drollest  of  buffos,  Nature's  odd  protest, 

A  catbird    squealing   in  a   blackbird's 

nest. 

Kind,   faithful    Nature!     While   the 
sour-eyed  Scot,  — 

Her  cheerful  smiles  forbidden  or   for- 
got,— 

Talks  only  of  his  preacher  and  his  kirk, — 

Hears  five-hour  sermons  for  his  Sunday 
work,  — 

Praying  and  fasting  till  his  meagre  face 

Gains  its  due  length,  the  genuine  sign 
of  grace,  — 

An    Ayrshire    mother   in   the  land  of 
Knox 

Her  embryo  poet  in  his  cradle  rocks ; — 

Nature,  long  shivering  in  her  dim  eclipse, 

Steals  in  a  sunbeam  to  those  baby  lips  ; 

So  to  its  home  her  banished   smile  re- 
turns, 

And   Scotland   sweetens  with  the  song 

of  Burns  ! 

The   morning  came;    I  reached   the 
classic  hall  ; 

A  clock-face  eyed  me,  staring  from  the 
wall ; 


346 


THE  IRON   GATE,   AND   OTHER   POEMS. 


Beneath  its  hands  a  printed  line  I  read  : 

YOUTH  is  LIFE'S  SEED-TIME  :  so  the 
clock-face  said  : 

Some   took  its  counsel,  as  the  sequel 
showed,  — 

Sowed,  —  their  wild  oats,  —  and  reaped 

as  they  had  sowed. 

How  all  comes  back  !    the  upward 
slanting  floor,  — 

The  masters'  thrones  that  flank  the  cen- 
tral door,  — 

The  long,  outstretching  alleys  that  di- 
vide 

The  rows  of  desks  that  stand  on  either 
side,  — 

The  staring  boys,  a  face  to  every  desk, 

Bright,  dull,  pale,  blooming,  common, 

picturesque. 

Grave  is  the  Master's  look ;  his  fore- 
head wears 

Thick  rows  of  wrinkles,  prints  of  worry- 
ing cares ; 

Uneasy  lie  the  heads  of  all  that  rule, 

His  most  of  all  whose    kingdom  is  a 
school. 

Supreme  he  sits ;  before  the  awful  frown 

That  bends  his  brows  the  boldest  eye 
goes  down ; 

Not  more  submissive  Israel  heard  and 
saw 

At  Sinai's  foot  the  Giver  of  the  Law. 
Less  stern  he  seems,  who  sits  in  equal 
state 

On  the  twin  throne  and  shares  the  em- 
pire's weight  ; 

Around  his  lips  the  subtle  life  that  plays 

Steals  quaintly  forth  in  many  a  jesting 
phrase ; 

A  lightsome    nature,  not  so  hard    to 
chafe, 

Pleasant  when  pleased ;  rough-handled, 
not  so  safe ; 

Some  tingling   memories  vaguely  I  re- 
call, 

But  to  forgive  him.     God  forgive  us 
all! 


One  yet  remains,  whose  well-remem- 
bered name 
Pleads  in  my  grateful  heart  its  tender 

claim ; 
His  was  the  charm  magnetic,  the  bright 

look 
That  sheds  its  sunshine  on  the  dreariest 

book  ; 

A  loving  soul  to  every  task  he  brought 
That  sweetly  mingled  with  the  lore  he 

taught ; 
Sprung  from  a  saintly  race  that  never 

could 
From  youth  to  age   be   anything  but 

good, 
His    few  brief  years   in  holiest  labors 

spent, 
Earth  lost  too  soon  the  treasure  heaven 

had  lent. 

Kindest  of  teachers,  studious  to  divine 
Some  hint  of  promise  in  my  earliest 

line, 
These  faint  and  faltering  words  thou 

canst  not  hear 

Throb  from  a  heart  that  holds  thy  mem- 
ory dear. 
As  to  the   traveller's  eye  the  varied 

plain 
Shows  through  the  window  of  the  flying 

train, 
A  mingled  landscape,  rather  felt  than 

seen, 

A  gravelly  bank,  a  sudden  flash  of  green, 
A  tangled  wood,  a  glittering  stream  that 

flows 
Through  the  cleft   summit  where  the 

cliff  once  rose, 
All    strangely    blended    in    a    hurried 

gleam, 
Rock,   wood,  waste,    meadow,   village, 

hill-side,  stream,  — 
So,  as  we  look  behind  us,  life  appears, 
Seen  through  the  vista  of  our  bygone 

years. 
Yet  in  the  dead  past's  shadow-filled 

domain, 


THE  SCHOOL-BOY. 


347 


Some  vanished  shapes  the  hues  of  life 

retain ; 
Unbidden,    oft,    before   our    dreaming 

eyes 
From  the  vague  mists  in  memory's  path 

they  rise. 
So  comes  his  blooming  image  to  my 

view, 
The   friend  of   joyous  days  when  life 

was  new, 
Hope  yet  untamed,  the  blood  of  youth 

unchilled, 

No  blank  arrear  of  promise  unfulfilled, 
Life's  flower  yet  hidden  in  its  sheltering 

fold, 

Its  pictured  canvas  yet  to  be  unrolled. 
His  the  frank  smile  I  vainly  look  to 

greet, 
His  the  warm  grasp  my  clasping  hand 

should  meet ; 

How  would  our  lips  renew  their  school- 
boy talk, 
Our    feet    retrace    the    old    familiar 

walk! 

For  thee  no  more  earth's  cheerful  morn- 
ing shines 
Through  the  green  fringes  of  the  tented 

pines  ; 
Ah  me !  is  heaven  so  far  thou  canst  not 

hear, 

Or  is  thy  viewless  spirit  hovering  near, 
A   fair    young    presence,   bright    with 

morning's  glow, 
The  fresh-cheeked  boy  of  fifty  years 

ago? 
Yes,  fifty  years,  with  all  their  circling 

suns, 
Behind  them  all  my  glance  reverted 

runs; 
Where  now  that  time  remote,  its  griefs, 

its  joys, 
Where  are  its   gray  -  haired   men,  its 

bright-haired  boys  1 
Where  is  the  patriarch  time  could  hardly 

tire, — 
The    good   old,  wrinkled,   immemorial 


(An  honest  treasurer,  like  a  black- 
plumed  swan, 

Not  every  day  our  eyes  may  look  upon.) 

Where  the  tough  champion  who,  with 
Calvin's  sword, 

In  wordy  conflicts  battled  for  the  Lord  ? 

Where  the  grave  scholar,  lonely,  calm, 
austere, 

Whose  voice  like  music  charmed  the 
listening  ear, 

Whose  light  rekindled,  like  the  morn» 
ing  star 

Still  shines  upon  us  through  the  gates 
ajar  ? 

Where  the  still,  solemn,  weary,  sad-eyed 
man, 

Whose  care-worn  face  my  wandering 
eyes  would  scan,  — 

His  features  wasted  in  the  lingering 
strife 

With  the  pale  foe  that  drains  the  stu- 
dent's life  ? 

Where  my  old  friend,  the  scholar,  teach- 
er, saint, 

Whose  creed,  some  hinted,  showed  a 
speck  of  taint ; 

He  broached  his  own  opinion,  which  is 
not 

Lightly  to  be  forgiven  or  forgot ; 

Some  riddle's  point,  —  I  scarce  remem- 
ber now,  — 

Homot,  perhaps,  where  they  said  homo 
— ou. 

(If  the  unlettered  greatly  wish  to  know 

Where  lies  the  difference  betwixt  oi 
and  o, 

Those  of  the  curious  who  have  time  may 
search 

Among  the  stale  conundrums  of  their 
church.) 

Beneath  his  roof  his  peaceful  life  I 
shared, 

And  for  his  modes  of  faith  I  little  cared,- 

I,  taught  to  judge  men's  dogmas  by 
their  deeds, 

Long  ere  the  days  of  india  -  rubber 
creeds. 


348 


THE  IRON   GATE,  AND   OTHER   POEMS. 


Why   should  we  look  one  common 
faith  to  find, 

Where  one  in  every  score  is  color-blind  ? 

If  h6re  on  earth  they  know  not  red 
from  green, 

Will  they  see  better  into  things  unseen ! 
Once  more  to  time's  old  graveyard  I 
return 

And  scrape  the  moss  from  memory's 
pictured  urn. 

Who,  in  these  days  when  all  things  go 
by  steam 

Recalls  the  stage-coach  with  its  four- 
horse  team  ? 

Its  sturdy  driver,  —  who   remembers 
him  ? 

Or  the  old  landlord,  saturnine  and  grim, 

Who  left  our  hill-top  for  a  new  abode 

And  reared  his  sign-post  farther  down 
the  road  ? 

Still  in   the  waters  of  the  dark   Shaw- 
shine 

Do  the  young  bathers  splash  and  think 
they  're  clean  ? 

Do  pilgrims  find  their  way  to  Indian 
Ridge, 

Or  journey  onward  to  the  far-off  bridge, 

And  bring  to  younger  ears  the  story 
back 

Of  the  broad  stream,  the  mighty  Merri- 
mac? 

Are  there  still  truant  feet  that  stray 
beyond 

These  circling    bounds    to  Pomp's  or 
Haggett's  Pond, 

Or  where  the  legendary  name  recalls 

The  forest's   earlier  tenant,  —  "  Deer- 
jump  Falls  "  ? 

Yes,  every  nook  these  youthful  feet 
explore, 

Just  as  our  sires  and  grandsires  did  of 
yore; 

So  all  life's  opening  paths,  where  na- 
ture led 

Their  father's  feet,  the   children's  chil- 
dren tread. 


Roll  the  round  century's  five  score  years 

away, 
Call  from  our  storied  past  that  earliest 

day 
When  great  Eliphalet  (I  can  see  him 

now,  — 
Big  name,  big  frame,  big  voice,  and 

beetling  brow), 
Then  young  Eliphalet,  —  ruled  the  rows 

of  boys 

In  homespun  gray  or  old-world  cordu- 
roys, — 
And    save    for    fashion's    whims,  the 

benches  show 
The  self-same  youths,  the  very  boys  we 

know. 
Time  works  strange  marvels :  since   I 

trod  the  green 
And  swung  the  gates,  what  wonders  I 

have  seen  ! 
But  come  what  will,  —  the  sky   itself 

may  fall  — 
As  things  of  course  the  boy  accepts  them 

all. 
The  prophet's  chariot,  drawn  by  steeds 

of  flame, 
For  daily  use   our  travelling  millions 

claim  ; 
The  face  we  love  a  sunbeam  makes  our 

own  ; 

No  more  the  surgeon  hears  the  suffer- 
er's groan ; 

What  unwrit  histories  wrapped  in  dark- 
ness lay 
Till  shovelling  Schliemann  bared  them 

to  the  day  ! 
Your  Richelieu  says,  and   says  it  well, 

my  lord, 
The  pen  is  (sometimes)  mightier  than 

the  sword ; 
Great  is  the   goosequill,   say  we  all  ; 

Amen  ! 
Sometimes  the  spade  is  mightier  than 

the  pen ; 
It  shows  where  Babel's  terraced  walls 

were  raised, 


THE    SCHOOL  BOY.     Page  349. 


THE   SCHOOL-BOY. 


349 


The  slabs  that  cracked  when  Nimrod's 
palace  blazed, 

Unearths  Mycenae,  rediscovers  Troy,  — 

Calmly  he  listens,  that  immortal  boy. 

A  new  Prometheus  tips  our  wands  with 
fire, 

A  mightier  Orpheus  strains  the  whis- 
pering wire, 

Whose  lightning  thrills  the  lazy  winds 
outrun 

And  hold  the  hours  as  Joshua  stayed 
the  sun, — 

So  swift,  in  truth,  we  hardly  find  a 
place 

For  those  dim  fictions  known  as  time 
and  space. 

Still  a  new  miracle  each  year  sup- 
plies, — 

See  at  his  work  the  chemist  of  the 
skies, 

Who  questions  Sirius  in  his  tortured 
rays 

And  steals  the  secret  of  the  solar 
blaze  ; 

Hush  !  while  the  window-rattling  bugles 
play 

The  nation's  airs  a  hundred  miles  away  ! 

That  wicked  phonograph  !  hark !  how 
it  swears ! 

Turn  it  again  and  make  it  say  its  pray- 
ers ! 

And  was  it  true,  then,  what  the  story 
said 

Of  Oxford's  friar  and  his  brazen  head  ? 

While  wondering  Science  stands,  herself 


At  each  day's  miracle,  and  asks  "  What 
next  ?  " 

The  immortal  boy,  the  coming  heir  of 
all, 

Springs  from  his  desk  to  "  urge  the  fly- 
ing ball," 

Cleaves  with  his  bending  oar  the  glassy 
waves, 

With  sinewy  arm  the  dashing  current 
braves, 


The  same  bright  creature  in  these  haunts 

of  ours 
That  Eton  shadowed  with  her  "  antique 

towers." 

Boy  !     Where  is  he  ?  the  long-limbed 

youth  inquires, 
Whom  his  rough  chin  with  manly  pride 

inspires ; 
Ah,  when  the  ruddy  cheek  no  longer 

glows, 
When  the  bright  hair  is  white  as  winter 

snows, 
When  the  dim  eye  has  lost  its  lambent 

name, 
Sweet  to  his  ear  will  be   his  school -boy 

name ! 
Nor  think  the  difference  mighty  as  it 

seems 
Between  life's  morning  and  its  evening 

dreams  ; 
Fourscore,   like  twenty,  has   its  tasks 

and  toys ; 
In  earth's  wide  school-house  all  are  girls 

and  boys. 

Brothers,  forgive  my  wayward  fancy. 

Who 
Can  guess  beforehand  what  his  pen  will 

do? 
Too  light  my  strain  for  listeners  such  as 

these, 
Whom    graver    thoughts    and   soberer 

speech  shall  please. 
Is  he  not  here  whose   breath  of  holy 

song 
Has  raised  the  downcast  eyes  of  Faith 

so  long  ? 
Are  they  not  here,  the  strangers  in  your 

gates, 
For  whom   the  wearied   ear  impatient 

waits,  — 
The  lange-brained  scholars  whom  their 

toils  release,  — 
The  bannered  heralds  of  the  Prince  of 

Peace  ? 


350 


THE  IRON  GATE,   AND   OTHER   POEMS. 


Such  was  the    gentle  friend  whose 

youth  uu  blamed 
In  years  long  past  our  student-benches 

claimed ; 
Whose  name,  illumined  on  the  sacred 

page, 

Lives  in  the  labors  of  his  riper  age  ; 
Such  he  whose  record  time's  destroying 

march 
Leaves  uneffaced  on  Zion's  springing 

arch  : 
Not  to  the  scanty  phrase  of  measured 

song, 
Cramped  in  its  fetters,  names  like  these 

belong ; 
One  ray  they  lend  to  gild  my  slender 

line  — 
Their  praise  I  leave  to  sweeter  lips  than 

mine. 


Homes  of  our  sires,  where  Learning's 

temple  rose, 
While  yet  they  struggled  with    their 

banded  foes, 

As  in  the  West  thy  century's  sun  de- 
scends, 
One  parting  gleam  its  dying  radiance 

lends. 
Darker  and  deeper  though  the  shadows 

fall 
From  the  gray   towers    on    Doubting 

Castle's  wall, 
Though  Pope  and  Pagan  re-array  their 

hosts, 
And  her  new  armor  youthful  Science 

boasts, 
Truth,  for  whose  altar  rose  this  holy 

shrine, 
Shall  fly  for  refuge  to  these  bowers  of 

thine ; 
No  past  shall  chain  her  with  its  rusted 

vow, 
No  Jew's  phylactery  bind  her  Christian 

brow, 
But  Faith  shall  smile  to  find  her  sister 

free, 


And  nobler  manhood  draw  its  life  from 
thee. 

Long  as  the  arching  ekies  above  thee 
spread, 

As  on  thy  groves  the  dews  of  heaven 
are  shed, 

With  currents  widening  still  from  year 
to  year, 

And  deepening  channels,  calm,  un- 
troubled, clear, 

Flow  the  twin  streamlets  from  thy  sa- 
cred hill  — 

Pieria's  fount  and  Siloam's  shaded 
rill! 


THE  SILENT   MELODY. 

!  BEING  me  my  broken  harp, "  he  said  ; 
"  We  both  are  wrecks,  —  but  as  ye 

will,— 
Though  all  its  ringing    tones  have 

fled, 

Their  echoes  linger  round  it  still ; 
It  had  some  golden  strings,  I  know, 
But  that  was  long,  —  how  long  !  — ' 


"  I  cannot  see  its  tarnished  gold, 

I  cannot  hear  its  vanished  tone, 
Scarce  can  my  trembling  fingers  hold 
The  pillared  frame  so  long  their 

own  ; 

We  both  are  wrecks,  —  a  while  ago 
It  had  some  silver  strings,  I  know, 

"  But  on  them  Time  too  long  has  played 
The  solemn   strain  that  knows  no 

change, 

And  where  of  old  my  fingers  strayed 
The  chords  they  find  are  new  and 

strange,  — 
Yes  !    iron   strings,  —  I  know,  —  I 

know,  — 
We  both  are  wrecks  of  long  ago. 


THE   SILENT   MELODY. 


351 


"  We  both  are    wrecks,  —  a  shattered 

pair,  — 

Strange  to  ourselves  in  time's  dis- 
guise   .     .    . 

What  say  ye  to  the  lovesick  air 
That  brought  the  tears  from  Ma- 
rian's eyes  ? 
Ay  !  trust  me,  —  under   breasts  of 

snow 
Hearts  could  be  melted  long  ago  ! 

fc  Or  will  ye  hear  the  storm-soug's  crash 
That  from  his  dreams  the   soldier 

woke, 

And  bade  him  face  the  lightning  flash 
When    battle's    cloud  in  thunder 

broke1?     .    .     . 
Wrecks,  —  nought  but  wrecks  !  —  the 

time  was  when 
We  two  were  worth  a  thousand  men  !  " 

And  so  the  broken  harp  they  bring 
With  pitying  smiles  that  none  could 

blame  ; 

Alas  !  there  's  not  a  single  string 
Of  all    that    filled    the    tarnished 

frame ! 

But  see  !  like  children  overjoyed, 
His    fingers    rambling   through    the 
void  ! 

'I  clasp  .thee  !  Ay  .  .  .  mine  ancient 

lyre  .  .  . 

Nay,  guide  my  wandering  fingers. 
.  There! 


They  love  to  dally  with  the  wire 
As     Isaac     played     with    Esau's 

hair.  .  .  . 
Hush !    ye    shall    hear    the    famous 

tune 
That    Marian    called  the  Breath  of 

June ! " 

And  so  they  softly  gather  round  : 
Rapt    in    his    tuneful    trance    he 

seems : 
His  fingers  move  :  but  not  a  sound ! 

A  silence  like  the  song  of  dreams. . . . 
'  There !    ye   have  heard  the  air,"   he 

cries, 

'  That  brought  the  tears  from  Marian's 
eyes !  " 

Ah,  smile  not  at  his  fond  conceit, 
Nor    deem  his  fancy  wrought  in 
vain  ; 

To  him  the  unreal  sounds  are  sweet, — 
No  discord  mars  the  silent  strain 

Scored  on  life's  latest,  starlit  page  — 

The  voiceless  melody  of  age. 

Sweet  are  the  lips  of  all  that  sing, 
When  Nature's  music  breathes  un- 
sought, 

But  never  yet  could  voice  or  string 
So     truly     shape     our     tenderest 

thought 

As  when  by  life's  decaying  fire 
Our    fingers    sweep    the    stringlesa 
lyre! 


NOTES. 


Pagel. 

"OLD  IRONSIDES." 

This  was  the  popular  name  by  which 
the  frigate  "Constitution"  was  known. 
The  poem  was  first  printed  in  the  Boston 
Daily  Advertiser,  at  the  time  when  it  was 
proposed  to  break  up  the  old  ship  as  unlit 
for  service. 


"THE  CAMBRIDGE  CHURCHYARD." 
"The  Goblet  and  the  Sun  " '(Vas-Sol), 
sculptured  on  a  freestone  slab  supported 
by  five  pillars,  are  the  only  designation  of 
the  family  tomb  of  the  Vassalls. 

Page  25. 

"  Thou  calm,  chaste  scholar." 
Charles  Chauncy  Emerson ;  died  May  9, 
1836. 

Page  26. 

"And  thou,  dear  friend." 
James  Jackson,  Jr.,  M.  D. ;  died  March 
28, 1834. 

Page  53. 

"  Hark  /    The  sweet  bells  renew  their  wel- 
come sound." 

The  churches  referred  to  in  the  lines 
which  follow  are,  — 

1.  "  King's  Chapel,"  the  foundation  of 
which  was  laid  by  Governor  Shirley  in 
1749. 

2.  Brattle   Street  Church,  consecrated 
in  1773.    The  completion  of  this  edifice, 
the  design    of   which    included  a  spire, 
was    prevented  by  the  troubles    of   the 


Revolution,  and  its  plain,  square  tower 
presents  nothing  more  attractive  than  a 
massive  simplicity.  In  the  front  of  this 
tower  is  still  seen,  half  imbedded  in  the 
brick-work,  a  cannon-ball,  which  was 
thrown  from  the  American  fortifications 
at  Cambridge,  during  the  bombardment  of 
the  city,  then  occupied  by  the  British 
troops. 

3.  The  "  Old  South,"  first  occupied  for 
public  worship  in  1730. 

4.  Park  Street  Church,  built  in  1809, 
the  tall  white  steepie  of  which  is  the  most 
conspicuous  of  all  the  Boston  spires. 

5.  Christ  Church,    opened   for  public 
worship  in  1723,  and  containing  a  set  of 
eight  bells,  until  of  late  years  the  only 
chime  in  Boston. 


AGNES. 

The  story  of  Sir  Harry  Frankland 
and  Agnes  Surraige  is  told  in  the  ballad 
with  a  very  strict  adhesion  to  the  facts. 
These  were  obtained  from  information 
afforded  me  by  the  Rev.  Mr.  Webster 
of  Hopkinton,  in  company  with  whom  I 
visited  the  Frankland  Mansion  in  that 
town,  then  standing  ;  from  a  very  interest- 
ing Memoir,  by  the  Rev.  Elias  Nason 
of  Medford,  not  yet  published  ;  and  from 
the  manuscript  diary  of  Sir  Harry,  or  more 
properly  Sir  Charles  Henry  Frankland, 
now  in  the  library  of  the  Massachusetts 
Historical  Society. 

At  the  time  of  the  visit  referred  to,  old 


354 


NOTES. 


Julia  was  living,  and  on  our  return  we 
called  at  the  house  where  she  resided.1 
Her  account  is  little  more  than  paraphrased 
in  the  poem.  If  the  incidents  are  treated 
with  a  certain  liberality  at  the  close  of  the 
fifth  part,  the  essential  fact  that  Agnes 
rescued  Sir  Harry  from  the  ruins  after  the 
earthquake,  and  their  subsequent  marriage 
as  related,  may  be  accepted  as  literal  truth. 
So  with  regard  to  most  of  the  trifling  de- 
tails which  are  given ;  they  are  taken  from 
the  record. 

It  is  to  be  hoped  that  the  Rev.  Mr. 
Nason's  Memoir  will  be  published,  that 
this  extraordinary  romance  of  our  sober 
New  England  life  may  become  familiar  to 
that  class  of  readers  who  prefer  a  rigorous 
statement  to  an  embellished  narrative.  It 
will  be  found  to  contain  many  historical 
facts  and  allusions  which  add  much  to  its 
romantic  interest. 

It  is  greatly  to  be  regretted  that  the 
Frankland  Mansion  no  longer  exists.  It 
was  accidentally  burned  on  the  23d  of 
January,  1858,  a  year  or  two  after  the  first 
sketch  of  this  ballad  was  written.  A  visit 
to  it  was  like  stepping  out  of  the  century 
into  the  years  before  the  Revolution.  A 
new  house,  similar  in  plan  and  arrange- 

i  She  was  living  June  10,  1861,  when  this 
jallad  was  published 


ments  to  the  old  one,  has  been  built  upon 
its  site,  and  the  terraces,  the  clump  of 
box,  and  the  lilacs,  doubtless  remain  to 
bear  witness  to  the  truth  of  this  story. 


Since  the  above  note  was  written  the 
Rev.  Mr.  Nason's  interesting  Memoir  of 
Sir  Harry  Frankland  has  been  published. 

Page  300. 
GRANDMOTHER'S  STORY  OF  BUNKER-HILL 

BATTLE. 

"  They  're  as  safe  as  Dan'l  Malcolyn," 
The  following  epitaph  is  still  to  be  read 
oil  a  tall  gravestone  standing  as  yet  un- 
disturbed among  the  transplanted  monu- 
ments of  the  dead  in  Copp's  Hill  Burial- 
ground,  one  of  the  three  city  cemeteries 
which  have  been  desecrated  and  ruined 
within  my  own  remembrance :  — 

"  Hare  lies  buried  in  a 

Stone  Grave  10  feet  deep, 

Capt  DANIEL  MALCOLM  Mercht 

Who  departed  this  Life 

October  23d,  1769, 

Aged  44  years, 

a  true  son  of  Liberty, 

a  Friend  to  the  Publick, 

an  Enemy  to  oppression, 

and  one  of  the  foremost 

in  opposing  the  Bevenue  Acts 

on  America." 


INDEX. 


PAGE 

"AdAmicos" 236 

ADDITIONAL  POEMS  (1837-1848)       .        .  27 

ADDITIONAL  POEMS  (to  1877)       .                .  293 

Address  for  Opening  of  Fifth  Ave.  Theatre  277 

Estivation 171 

After  a  Lecture  on  Keats    ....  129 

After  a  Lecture  on  Moore       .        .        .  128 

After  a  Lecture  on  Shelley         .        .        .  129 

After  a  Lecture  on  Wordsworth      .        .  127 

After-dinner  Poem,  An       ....  64 

After  the  Fire 246 

Agnes 89 

Album  Verges 168 

All  here 222 

America  to  Russia 255 

American  Academy  Centennial  Celebration  341 

Appeal  for  the  Old  South,  An         .        .  311 

Archbishop,  The,  and  Gil  Bias  .                 .  334 

Army  Hymn     ......  155 

At  the  Papyrus  Club  .                                  .  329 

Atlantic  Dinner,  At  the  .        .        .        .  296 

Aunt,  My     ...                 ...  4 

Aunt  Tabitha  ...'..  187 

Aviary,  My 826 

Avis 142 

Bachelor's  Private  Journal,  From  a          .  78 

Ballad  of  the  Boston  Tea  Party,  A         .  247 

Ballad  of  the  Oysterman,  The    ...  83 

Bankers'  Dinner,  The    .          ...  Ill 

Banquet  to  the  Chinese  Embassy,  At  the  257 

Banquet  to  the  Grand  Duke  Alexis,  At  the  256 

Banquet  to  the  Japanese  Embassy,  At  the  258 

Bells,  The 102 

Bill  and  Joe 207 

Birthday  Festival,  At  a  .        .        .        .  144 

Birthday  of  Daniel  Webster       ...  139 

Birthday  Tribute,  A        ....  144 
Blank  Sheet  of  Paper,  To  a                       .81 

Boston  Common 161 

Boys,  The 213 

Brother  Jonathan's  Lament    .        .        .  153 

Bryant's  Seventieth  Birthday     .        .        .  269 

Burns  Centennial  Celebration,  For  the  .  150 

Caged  Lion,  To  a 75 

Cambridge  Churchyard,  The  ...  2 

Canaan,  To 250 

Chambered  Nautilus,  The       ...  161 

Chanson  without  Music      ....  286 

"  Choose  you  this  Day  "...  217 

Christian  Gottfried  Ehrenberg,  To     .        .  264 

Close  of  a  Course  of  Lectures,  At  the     .  130 

Comet,  The          ......  9 

Coming  Era,  The 836 

Contentment 170 

Crooked  Footpath,  The  ....  178 

Daily  Trials 6 

De  Sauty 182 

Deacon's  Masterpiece,  The         .        .        .172 
Dedication  of  the  Ilalleck  Monument.  At 

the 274 

Dedication  of  the  Pittsfield  Cemetery        .  123 

Departed  Days 33 

Dilemma,  The 4 


Dinner  to  Admiral  Farragnt,  At  a 
Dinner  to  General  Grant,  At  a 
Dorchester  Giant,  The         .. 
Dorothy  Q 

EARLIER  POEMS  .... 
Edward  Everett        ... 
English  Friend,  To  an 


PAG! 

,  262 
261 

.    7 

243 

1 

268 
126 


Epilogue  to  the  Breakfast-table  Series  .  205 

Even  Song  .......  227 

Evening,  by  a  Tailor       ....  6 

Evening  Thought,  An         ....  86 

Extracts  from  a  Medical  Poem       .        .  46 

Familiar  Letter,  A      .....  306 

Family  Record,  A   .....  315 

Fantasia       .......  187 

Farewell  to  Agassiz,  A    ....  294 

Farewell  to  J.  R.  Lowell    .        .        .        .137 

First  Fan,  The         .....  312 

First  Verses          ......  320 

Flower  of  Liberty,  The   ....  156 

For  Class  Meeting  ......  235 

For  the  Centennial  Dinner  of  the  Proprie- 

tors of  Boston  Pier  .....  287 

For  the  Commemoration  Services  .        .  266 

For  the  Moore  Centennial  Celebration       .  338 

For  Whittier's  Seventieth  Birthday        .  330 

Fountain  of  Youth,  The    ....  289 

Freedom,  Our  Queen       ....  155 

F.  W.  C  ........  218 

God  save  the  Flag   .        .    .    .        .        .  252 

Good  Time  Going,  A   .....  169 

Governor  Swaine,  To       ....  125 

Grandmother's  Story  of  Bunker  Hill  Battle  300 
Gray  Chief,  The  .        .        .        .    '    .        .145 

H.  C.  M.,  H.  S.,  J.  K.  W.        .        .        .  232 

Height  of  the  Ridiculous,  The    ...  12 

Homesick  in  Heaven                        .        .  185 

Hot  Season,  The                  «...  84 

How  not  to  settle  it         ....  237 

How  the  old  Horse  won  the  Bet         .        .  309 

Hudson,  The    ......  131 

Humboldt's  Birthday          .        .        .        .272 

H.  W.  Longfellow,  To      .        .        .        .263 

Hymn  after  Emancipation  Proclamation  253 

Hymn  at  the  Funeral  of  Charles  Sumuer  275 

Hymn  for  the  Chicago  Fair        .        .        .  263 

Hymn  for  the  Class-Meeting  .        .        .  227 
Hymn  for  the  Dedication  of  the  Harvard 

Memorial  Hall        .....  275 
Hymn  for  the  Inauguration  of  the  Andrew 

Statue  .......  298 

Hymn  for  the  Laying  of  the  Corner  Stone 

of  Harvard  Memorial  Hall  .        .        .  274 

Hymn  of  Peace,  A      .....  290 

Hymn  of  Trust        .....  177 

Illustration  of  a  Picture     ...        .77 

Impromptu,  An       .....  209 

In  Response         ......  837 

IN  THE  QUIET  DATS         ....  243 

In  WAR  TIME     ......  250 

Insect,  To  an  ...... 

International  Ode       ....  152 

Iris,  Her  Book         .....  179 


356 


INDEX. 


IRON  GATE,  THE 

Island  Hunting  Song,  The 

Island  Ruin,  The 

1.  D.  R 

Joseph  Warren,  M.  D.        . 

La  Grisette 


PAGE   I 

321  ' 

..  33  I 

108  ! 

215 

.        .300 
78 

Last  Blossom,  The      .....  170 

Last  Charge,  The     .....  219 

Last  Leaf,  The     ......  1 

Last  Look,  The  145 

Last  Reader,  The         .....  12 

Last  Survivor,  The           ....  332 

Latter-day  Warnings  .....  168 

Lexington        ......  29 

L:Inconnue         ......  79 

Lines        .......  214 

Lines  by  a  Clerk         .....  80 

Lines  recited  at  the  Berkshire  Festival  .  35 

Living  Temple,  The    .....  143 

Lucy         .......  298 

Mare  Rubrum     ......  212 

Martha     .......  146 

Meeting  of  Friends,  At  a    .        .        .        .  293 

Meeting  of  the  Alumni  of  Harvard  College  147 

Meeting  of  the  Am.  Medical  Association  132 

Meeting  of  the  Burns  Club,  For  the  .  137 

Meeting  of  the  Dryads,  The    ...  71 

Meeting  of  the  Nat.  Sanitary  Association    .  149 

Memorial  Tribute,  A       ....  299 

MEMORIAL  VERSES       .....  266 

Memory  of  C.  W.  Upham,  Jr.,  In    .        .  146 

Memory  of  John  and  Robert  Ware,  Jr.,  In  271 

Midsummer         ......  182 

Mind's  Diet,  The      .....  105 

MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS        ....  71 

Modest  Request,  A  .....  39 

Moral  Bully,  The        .....  103 

Mother's  Secret,  A  .....  117 

Musa    .                         .....  163 

Music  Grinders,  The        ....  9 

My  Annual          ......  221 

Mysterious  Illness,  The           .                 .  115 
Mysterious  Visitor,  The      .                 .        .72 

Nearing  the  Snow  Line   .        .                 .  248 

Never  or  Now      ......  251 

New  Eden,  The                                 .        .  134 

Non-Resistance    ...                         .  103 

Noontide  Lyric,  A    .....  84 

Nnx  Postcanatiea       .....  36 

Ode  for  a  Social  Meeting  (with  alterations)  176 

Ode  for  Washington's  Birthday         .        .  138 

Old  Cambridge         .....  304 

Old  Cruiser,  The         .....  225 

Old  Ironsides    ......  1 

Old  Man  dreams,  The          ....  210 

Old  Man  of  the  Sea,  The  ....  151 

Old  Player,  The  ......  105 

Old  Year  Song,  An           ....  243 

On  Lending  a  Punch-Bowl         .                 .  SO 

On  the  Threshold    .....  328 

Once  More  .......  223 

One  Country    ......  252 

Only  Daughter,  The    .....  33 

Opening  of  the  Piano,  The      ...  181 

Opening  the  Window  .....  241 

Organ  Blower,  The          ....  245 

Our  Banker         ......  233 

Our  Indian  Summer        ....  211 

Our  Limitations          .....  105 

Our  Oldest  Friend  .....  220 

Our  Sweet  Singer        .....  231 

Our  Yankee  Girls     .....  79 


MOT 

Pantomime,  At  the                             .       .  245 

Parson  Turell's  Legacy   ....  174 

Parting  Health,  A 164 

Parting  Hymn 156 

Parting  Song,  The 148 

Parting  Word,  The 46 

Philosopher  to  his  Love,  The     ...  80 

PICTURES  FROM  OCCASIONAL  POEMS         .  99 

Pilgrim's  Vision,  The         ....  27 

Ploughman,  The 97 

Poem  served  to  Order,  A    ....  298 

POEMS  FROM  THE  AUTOCRAT    .        .        .  161 

POEMS  FROM  THE  PROFESSOR      .       .        .  177 

POEMS  FROM  THE  POET    ....  185 

POEMS  OF  THE  CLASS  OF  :29              .        .  207 

Poet's  Lot,  The 81 

Poetry  ;  a  Metrical  Essay   ....  13 

Portrait,  A 86 

Portrait  of  a  Gentleman,  To  the         .        .  82 

Portrait  of  a  Lady,  To  the       ...  8 

Programme 241 

Prologue 166 

Promise,  The 141 

"QuiVive" 86 

R.  B.  H.,  To 3H 

READERS,  To  MY Ti 

Reflections  of  a  Proud  Pedestrian      .        .  6 

Rhymed  Lesson,  A 49 

RHYMES  OF  AN  HOUR 277 

Rip  Van  Winkle,  M.  D.   .  280 

Robinson  of  Leyden 180 

Roman  Aqueduct,  A        ....  77 

School-Boy,  The 343 

Sea  Dialogue,  A 295 

Secret  of  the  Stars,  The      .        .        .        .121 

Semi-Cent.  Celebration  of  N.  Eng.  Society  136 

Sentiment,  A 48 

Sentiment,  A 133 

September  Gale,  The 11 

Services  in  Memory  of  Abraham  Lincoln  266 

Shadows,  The 335 

Shakespeare 270 

Sherman  'a  in  Savannah          .        .        .  221 

Ship  of  State,  The 314 

Silent  Melody,  The          ....  350 
Smiling  Listener,  The        ....  229 
Song  for  a  Temperance  Dinner        .        .  43 
Song  for  Centennial  Celebration  of  Har- 
vard College 32 

Song  for  the  Dinner  to  Charles  Dickens     .  34 

Song  of  Other  Days,  A        ....  47 

Song  of  Twenty-Nine,  A          ...  208 

SONGS  IN  MANY  KEYS         ....  87 

SONGS  OF  MANY  SEASONS        .        .       .  241 

SONGS  OF  WELCOME  AND  FAREWELL  .       .  255 

Spectre  Pig,  The 74 

Spring 99 

;  Spring  has  come 165 

St.  Anthony  the  Reformer         .        .        .181 

Stanzas 80 

Star  and  the  Water-Lily ,  The             .        .  76 

Steamboat,  The 29 

Stethoscope  Song,  The        ....  43 

Study,  The 100 

Sun  and  Shadow 162 

Sun-day  Hymn,  A   .        .        .        .        .  178 
Sweet  Little  Man,  The         .        .         .         .157 

"  Thus  saith  the  Lord  "  .        .        .        .  251 

To  George  Peabody 328 

To  James  Freeman  Clarke       .        .        .  340 

Toadstool,  The 73 

Toast  to  Wilkie  Collins,  A      ...  263 


INDEX. 


357 


PAGE 

.                  10 

PAGE 

153 

Two  Armies,  The        .        .        . 

.    162 

215 

Two  Sonnets  :  Harvard  .        . 
Two  Streams,  The       ... 

331 
.    141 

Voiceless,  The     

141 

216 

Under  the  Violets    . 
Under  the  Washington  Elm 
Union  and  Liberty  .        . 

.       177 
.    154 
.       158 
.    308 

Wasp  and  the  Hornet,  The 
Welcome  to  the  Chicago  Commercial  Club 
Welcome  to  the  Grand  Duke  Alexis  . 

86 
341 
255 
306 

Verses  for  After-Dinner  .        . 
Vestigia  quinque  retrorsum        . 

38 
.    323 

What  I  have  come  for        .        .        .        . 
What  we  all  think   

233 
165 

127 

Wind-Clouds  and  Star-Drifts     . 

188 

